


For the Music Alone

by madame_faust



Category: The Phantom of the Opera (TV 1990)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, M/M, Past Drug Addiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2019-09-17 05:04:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16968207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madame_faust/pseuds/madame_faust
Summary: Erik Carriere is a musician and a singer, but not a performer. Due to a facial disfigurement and a history of opioid addiction, he tries to fly under the radar as much as he can. The latest production at his father's theatre, however, threatens to disrupt the fragile peace in his life and drag him from the shadows, into the limelight.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Tell Me Another Fairy Tale Part II! The 'Let's Put on a Musical Addition!'

**Six months from Present Day**

"Hello? Hey, Marshall! You missed call, are you coming?"

There was a long,  _long_  pause, during which the assembled cast and crew either held their breath or peed themselves, just a little. Some did both.

"What's he saying?" Zac asked, his already loud voice absolutely booming in the hush. Then he was shushed so loudly that Stace shoved a finger in her unoccupied ear and turned her back on them all.

"I see," she said tightly. "Nope. His health comes first. Yeah. Tomorrow? Or - no, I understand. Completely. Thank you. Tell him we send him our best. Yep. 'Bye."

Then, squaring her shoulders, she turned back to face them all, uttering the four words that are the nightmare of any stage manager on opening:

"We have no lead."

Stace closed her eyes, letting the hand holding her phone fall limply by her side. There was a pause where everyone digested the information they had been given. Took it in. Processed it. Replayed it back in their minds just so they could be sure that the words they'd heard were the words she'd said.

Neal broke the silence, his voice shrill and piercing.

"Are you FUCKING kidding me?"

The actors took their cues from their director, as was only right. And so utter pandemonium ensued.

**Present Day**

"It's been a warm winter and a cold spring," Erik crooned as they meandered through the park, walking around the recently thawed lake where some brave souls were paddling around in swan boats. "Everywhere I've been has felt wrong to me - "

"Global warming," Dalir grumbled. "Warm winter my ass."

Erik shrugged. "That's the lyric."

"Yeah, well...it's bullshit," he said. Dalir had absolutely no objection to listening to Erik sing, it was a-okay, fine, to hear him belting it out in the shower or to lend an "objective ear" to his recordings, but he'd much prefer there be truth to his art. Like, 'It's been a fucking cold winter and a miserable spring and the polar bears are homeless, will using paper straws actually reduce my heating bill?' Was that so much to ask?

"Take it up with the Indigo Girls," Erik replied and grinned at him, lightning-quick. The sudden burst of warm air (upper 50s! IT WAS A MIRACLE!) seemed to have buoyed his spirits. It wasn't that Dalir wasn't glad, it was just that Dalir was still bitter. Then again, maybe it wasn't the fact that the temperature had become bearable to a creature other than a penguin. After all, he'd  _called_  Christine the other night. And  _talked to her_  on the  _phone._  And said something that wasn't 'Happy Arbor Day.'

They'd been playing a really sad game of make-up texting for the past three months. As Dalir understood the timeline, she sent him a picture of a wreath on Christmas. Then he sent her fireworks on New Year's. She followed up with a heart on Valentine's Day and asked him how he was doing and he replied. Then Erik sent her a shamrock on March and that resulted in a five hour text-athon. And a new friendship request from Christine on Facebook.

"How's your girlfriend?" Dalir asked, not as out-of-the-blue as it might seem, given his train of thoughts.

"Eh..." Erik shrugged again, awkwardly. "She's...been better. She's between shows right now and her apartment isn't rent controlled - the landlord is threatening to raise the rent, apparently rich NYU students are interested."

"Rich NYU students'  _parents_ ," Dalir corrected him and Erik nodded in agreement. "That sucks. What's she doing in the meantime? Waiting tables?"

Coffee shop, it turned out. The proceeds of which could either go toward paying her rent or buying her food, but could not be stretched enough to accommodate both needs.

"You could..." Dalir trailed off before he finished the sentence. Though Erik and Christine were slowly patching their friendship back up, he wasn't so naive as to think that bygones were bygones and that she'd want to return to the site of trauma, even if the site was repainted and recarpeted and the trauma was almost two years in the past. Besides, Erik still had to oust one houseguest before he could let a room to another.

Not that Darren was renting. Only a few days after that December morning when Erik voluntarily took his mask off, he'd asked Dalir if it would be okay if his friend Darren Wong - fed up with being, like, the twenty-seventh chair in the London Philharmonic - moved in with them until he could straighten his life out.

'It's your house,' was Dalir's response at the time. In retrospect, he might have replied a little too quickly. Their intimacy was new, so new, and seemingly fragile that he wasn't willing to do anything to rock the boat. Anyway, it wasn't like Dalir could complain about Erik letting people live with him for free. At the time he'd been between jobs himself. At least the Apple Store was willing to give Darren a transfer.

Of course, now that they'd gone from companion and client to friends to  _boy_ friends, Dalir felt entitled to a little prickle of irritation now and again that what was formerly  _their_  couch had one extra occupant. That  _their_  TV time had another voice chiming in to offer unasked-for commentary. That, because Darren was home, Erik resumed his usual pattern of eating alone and after everyone else had finished their meals.

Anyway, it was sort of Dalir's house now, partially. Erik wouldn't let him contribute to the mortgage, but Dalir insisted on paying all the utilities and half the condo fees now that he'd found a job as the SRO at a local middle school (the district didn't allow guns in school buildings, so his intermittent tremor wasn't considered a liability).

Those factors combined might have led to an uncomfortable, but ultimately necessary conversation about how Darren was great and all, but it might be time for him to look for his own place...except for one thing. Darren made Erik laugh like Dalir had never heard him laugh before. If nothing else, even if Dalir thought he was the most annoying person on the planet, that laugh alone was reason enough not to push Darren to move out of the guest room.

Besides, it wasn't like they were  _never_  alone. Darren claimed an aversion, if not an allergy, to fresh air. Long walks and (eventually) bike rides were one way of getting some one-on-one time in.

"You could..." Dalir continued, like he hadn't just taken an awkwardly long pause, "invite her to be your plus one to the wedding. It'd be a good meal, anyway."

"Mmm," Erik hummed, looking past Dalir, out at the water. "I'm still not actually sure I'm going - "

"You're going," Dalir said, firmly. "You sent an RSVP. You're getting the chicken. I'm getting the steak. Or Christine's getting the steak."

Another plus in the 'Let Darren Stick Around Column' was the boost he gave Erik's socializing. And by boost, Dalir was referring to a conversation he'd partially overheard (right, okay, that he'd eavesdropped on) where Darren read Erik the riot act and said if his social anxiety prevented him from making a good showing at their mutual friend Mia's wedding that he (Erik) would officially be considered a Bad Friend. The only other Bad Friend from their high school circle was apparently some guy they used to play D&D with who started following Q-Anon and dropped off the face of the earth. Erik did not want to be in league with that guy, so he agreed that he'd go. And that he'd feign having a good time.

Later, Darren confided in Dalir that the  _trick_  was to get Erik to agree to put himself in a situation with a high fun-potential, with the inevitable outcome that once he resigned himself to pretend-fun, real-fun would surely be the outcome.

At the time, Dalir wondered whether Mr. Carriere would have been so gung-ho about finding Erik a sober companion if Darren had been in the country when he had his relapse. Was it fair for Dalir to be grateful that his boyfriend's best friend had been a time zone away during a period of downward spiraling? Nope, not remotely. Was a part of him selfishly grateful. Yes. Absolutely.

Erik's phone buzzed, cutting their argument about whether he was  _really_  hitting up a wedding short. He glanced down at it and grimaced. "Speaking of invitations - I've just been invited to the season's end wrap party. Private Facebook event so you know it's official."

"You should go," Dalir encouraged. "You rescued  _Cabaret_."

"No good deed," Erik muttered, putting the phone back in his pocket without committing either way. He drew closer to Dalir, settling an arm comfortably around his shoulders. Dalir responded by wrapping his arm around Erik's waist. Then they didn't talk, to argue or otherwise. They just watched the steady progress of a duck across the pond.

Weddings of best friends were one thing. Dalir wasn't about to push Erik to attend the wrap party. After all, adhering to the Darren Wong Philosophy, he was supposed to be encouraging Erik to do fun things and hanging out all night at a bar with his dad and his dad's colleagues wasn't Dalir's idea of fun.


	2. Chapter 2

Erik received the Facebook invite on Saturday. He still had zero intention of attending the annual year-end wrap party and so clicked the 'Not Going' option, foolishly assuming that would be the end of it. On Thursday, his interest was not increased when he found himself on the receiving end of the following group text:

**Reminder: Wrap Party at The Bistro on Main tomorrow night, 7PM - IT’S KARAOKE NIGHT, BITCHESSSSSSSS!**

No matter how many times he hit 'delete' on his phone, he still got pinged by about a thousand texts within the thread, asking about organizing carpools and Ubers and one persistent individual’s valiant attempt to find someone to duet ‘Islands in the Stream’ with them. Why this person was _convinced_ that song would just KILL at karaoke, Erik had no idea. Not that it mattered because he wasn’t going. 

This time last year, he’d been in the hospital detoxing, followed by a six-week stint in rehab. Obviously he missed the party. And, although no one said anything directly to him, they all knew _why_ he’d missed it. Erik tried to make himself scarce around the Performing Arts Center (or PAC, as it was known in local shorthand), after that. When he returned home following his latest and worst fuck-up, he didn’t really want to see anybody. Not seeing anybody quickly became habit. 

With the exception of helping out for _Cabaret_ , he tried to limit his trips to the PAC, and even then, he didn’t stop by the SM office to chat with Stace, or the booth to talk to the sound and light designers. It felt rude, to put himself out there, like he was purposefully setting people up to be in an awkward position. Either having to fake being nice to him for his dad’s sake, or endure an awkward silence because what do you _say_ to someone who not only OD’d in his own guest room, but traumatized a grad student in the process?

Better to stay the hell away. At least that was Erik’s plan until his phone buzzed with an incoming text on the day of the party.

**(Dad) Are you walking to the party tonight, or do you want me to pick you up? Unless Dalir’s driving. And tell DW he’s welcome.**

Erik stared at the message, stomach doing a nervous flip. It hadn’t even occurred to him that Dad would expect him to be there. Actually, he had assumed his father wanted him to stay away.

 **I wasn’t planning on walking or driving since I wasn’t planning on going,** Erik typed back. 

The reply came almost instantly: **Come on, be a sport. Everyone wants to know if you’ll be there, I already said yes.**

 **They probably wanted to be warned so they can stay away,** Erik shot back. **That’s 10 tables’ worth of nachos going to waste.**

 _Buzz._ **All the more reason you should come, you love nachos. See you at seven, let me know if you need a ride.**

Dalir was at work, but Erik shot him a text, knowing, even as he typed, what his reply would be to a request to spend the night making small-talk with drunk theatre people.

 **How drunk are we talking?** Dalir inquired first, right to be wary. 

**It’s karaoke night.**

_Buzz._ **No way in hell.**

Darren Wong was game, but he’d picked up a last-minute four-hour shift at the mall; he’d been back in town for five months, but the New York Phil hadn’t posted any auditions for violin yet, so he was splitting his time at the Apple Store for guaranteed pay and benefits and whatever pit jobs he could get locally, so he didn’t lose his mind. 

“I’m so down, though, I’ll text you when I get out,” he vowed, emerging from the guest bedroom in his electric-blue work shirt. His hair was military-short, which didn't suit him at all; he'd sliced off his manbun for his homecoming, figuring his mom would take the news about him quitting his stable orchestra job in London to follow his bliss a little better if she didn't hate his hair. It only half-worked, she could still love his haircut and hate his decisions. “Want me to drop you off on the way?”

That appealed to Erik more than walking twelve blocks alone, so he squeezed himself into the passenger seat of Darren’s Audi and turned a decent walk into a very short drive. 

Now, Erik really, really loved having Darren stateside; they mostly communicated through email while he was abroad because it was easier with the time difference and he missed holding real conversations. The one exceptions being, when Darren decided it wasn't enough to be Erik's best friend alone, but also his therapist. It was easier to shut down unwanted Feelings conversations in email, harder when the would-be psychologist was sitting beside him in a cramped car, actively doing him a favor.

“So, like,” Darren began as they waited at a red light, “your Dad just told you that you were coming? I mean, I’m all about free food, but that’s kind of dick.”

“Mmm,” Erik hummed, which should have signaled that he didn’t want to talk about it, but after twenty years of friendship meant Darren recognized those cues, it also made him feel he had the right to ignore them when Erik’s mental well-being was at stake. 

“Did you think about just saying no? Or straight-up lying and telling him you had plans?”

“What plans? You’re my plans, Dalir’s my plans,” Erik replied, a little irritably, intentionally projecting, _BACK OFF DARREN WONG_ , all for nothing. “Dalir’s a bad liar and you love free food. Never would’ve worked.”

The light changed and Darren pulled forward, temporarily double-parking to let Erik out at the Bistro. “You need to stand up for yourself, bro - ”

Mercifully, a guy in a pick-up truck behind him leaned on the horn, prompting Erik to get out quickly.

“Thanks for the ride!” he called, slamming the door shut. 

Darren rolled the window down, “This conversation isn’t over! I’ll be back! Save me a tray of nachos, they’re easier to eat after the cheese congeals - FOR FUCK’S SAKE, SLOW YOUR ROLL, ASSHOLE!”

This last was directed, not at Erik, but at the owner of the pick-up truck who served into the opposite lane at high speed to get around Darren. Erik waved as Darren started the car forward, still swearing at the other driver. He lingered on the sidewalk for a minute before he took a deep breath and texted his dad: **Here.**

Group travel was easier in public. It put strangers’ minds at ease to see him in a group, the logic people that if he (a freak, or at least a shady character) was traveling with other, evidently normal people, than he must be normal (or at least non-threatening) by association. Experience taught Erik that if he sauntered in by himself, there would be frantic summoning of managers and possibly calls to the police. Better to wait for an escort.

The escort came in the form of Neal, bounding out of the building like a hyped-up jackrabbit.

“Come _on_ ,” he said, grabbing Erik by the arm and dragging him inside. “We were just talking about you!”

 _Was everyone choosing their escape routes so they wouldn’t have to pass me on the stairs?_ Erik mused silently as Neal released his arm and let Erik walk up the staircase to the Bistro’s function room upstairs. The room wasn’t full yet, but the night was early and the usual suspects were crowded around his dad, who had his phone out - Lorraine from accounting was going over the numbers for the year. From the cheers that erupted from the small crowd every time she explained a percentage, apparently they were good. 

“Erik!” Jean-Claude was the first to notice him and raised his glass of beer like he was giving a toast. “Man of the hour!” 

And then everyone else started up a chant: "IN. THE. BLACK! IN. THE. BLACK!"

Which was, objectively good news, so Erik smiled and said, with a slight question in his voice, "Yay?"

"YAY!" went up the answering cheer - despite it only being quarter past, everyone was half-cocked already. Stace McMillan, their tiny lesbian stage manager of five seasons approached him, beer in hand.

"The extended run of _Cabaret_ put us over," she informed him, as Erik took the glass. She tapped her own mug of beer against his and said, "Congrats!"

"Um. I didn't really..." Erik started downplaying his involvement in _Cabaret_ immediately, but it didn't matter; everyone went back to his father's cell and oohing and aahing over the numbers. What he'd been about to say was that he only helped out marginally, that it was really Neal's show, etc. But there really wasn't any point to going on; as ever, with anything involving Neal, Dad was only too happy to sing his praises. And Neal was always eager to toot his own horn. 

It was kind of incredible, Erik reflected at he skirted around the edge of the room. This was the same guy who turned his nose up at any show that incorporated music (with the exception of his decision to include an original score by one of his college friends when he did _4:48 Psychosis_ last spring). And now, far from being the asshole who kept musicals out of the blackbox for the past five years, Neal was suddenly the only director who could make those vacuous, bits of brain-candy for theatrical dunces (Neal's own words!) relevant and sophisticated. The Harold Prince of the Finger Lakes.

 _What's so sophisticated about dirty lingerie and Nazis?_ Erik wondered, sliding into a chair and taking a sip of beer, gamely ignoring Maureen who he overheard asking his dad, 'Is Erik allowed to have that?' Erik glanced over and locked eyes with his dad. The shit-eating grin he'd been wearing since Lorraine crunched the numbers faded and he nodded to Maureen, muttering, 'He's fine,' then went back to praising Neal. 

_One drink,_ Erik vowed to himself, pulling his phone out of his pocket to text Darren and tell him he was cutting his night short. **If you want to party with my dad, go for it -**

"Thank fucking God," a voice muttered above him. Erik looked up from his phone and saw Charlotte plunk herself down in the empty chair across from him. She had a full glass of sangria in one hand and obviously just came back from a smoke break; it was a wonder he didn't smell her before he heard her. "I _hate_ small talk, your Dad said you were coming and I was like, oh, good, someone I can hold a conversation with."

She flashed him a sardonic smile, then pulled out her phone and started scrolling, continuing to talk to him, though her eyes were glued to the screen, "Where's your hot boyfriend?"

The bits of Erik's neck that could blush did so, but luckily Charlotte couldn't see it. "He's home, he isn't much for small talk either. Neither am I, but...I was told I was expected."

Charlotte nodded vigorously, "I told Neal I wouldn't come if you didn't come - like, are any actors going to be here? Or is it just _business_ people?"

She said the world 'business' like it left a bad taste in her mouth and gulped down the sangria like it was juice. During their vocal coaching sessions, Erik learned a lot about Charlotte's personal philosophy - she considered herself an Artist, with a capital 'A', which explained why she and Neal made such a good pair. And to be fair to Charlotte, she was an exceptional actress. Erik just wished she'd be a little less judgy toward the people who made it possible for her to bring her art (sorry, Art) to an audience. And cut her checks.

"They'll probably turn up around nine, for the karaoke," Erik told her. Charlotte pulled a face at her phone, like waiting an hour and a half for better company was too great a cross to bear. 

"Oh yeah, 'Islands in the Stream.' What song did you pick for that?" she asked him and Erik just laughed. She looked up at her phone frowning and he stopped chuckling; apparently she was serious.

"Uh, nothing," he shook his head. "I don't sing in front of people. Strangers. In public."

"Are you serious?" she asked. "I thought you loved singing, I thought it was, like, your thing."

Of course, Erik loved singing. He sang all the time. In the car, in the kitchen, in the shower, and in his recording booth where he actually got paid for it. Sometimes for family, at parties, especially if his Mom asked him. But in a bar? Surrounded by people he didn't know who wouldn't be able to hear him over the sounds of their own thoughts? Just one thought really: _What's up with the mask?_ But it was one thought loud enough to make them deaf to whatever came out of his mouth. 

"Not in front of people - live people," Erik clarified.

"Why not?" Charlotte asked, like it wasn't obvious. "I mean, I know historically karaoke is intended for terrible singers to let their freak flag fly, but you could show them how its done. Like. You're amazing? Hello? Is this some kind of low self-esteem fishing for compliments thing? Because I don't play that game."

The 'freak' thing was right on the nose. Erik took another drought of beer and said, in a slow measured voice. "That is not what this is. I don't perform. I don't want to. I don't like to. It's not...not for me."

Charlotte looked into his eyes for a beat, then sighed and went back to perusing her phone. "Okay. Whatever. I guess if you're a behind-the-scenes guy - "

But whether she was about to compliment him or insult him, Erik never got to find out. Neal had sauntered over and was pointing at him aggressively. "THIS GUY!" he shouted loud enough for the restaurant downstairs to hear him. "THIS GUY! THIS GUY _KNOWS MUSIC._ "

"I have $20,000 dollars of student loan debt to prove it," Erik joked with a tight smile. Trying to 'be a sport,' as his dad said. 

"HA!" Neal barked out a laugh like Erik was the funniest thing ever. "That's good, well, we're gonna _help_ you with that! Gather round everybody!"

It was a pointless command, everyone was already as 'gathered round' as was possible (the food had just come out and Neal was standing directly in front of the quesaedillas). But Neal drew himself up and continued his speech.

"I was going to wait 'til the actors were here, but why bother?" he asked rhetorically. "I'm announcing a change to the upcoming season! We're opening with..."

There was a pause for dramatic effect and Erik cocked his head at Neal confused. The press for the upcoming season was set. The brochures were printed, the subscribers and members of their e-newsletter were already alerted. They were opening with _Glengarry Glen Ross_ since Neal had a hard-on for Mamet that Erik would never understand.

"The book I did my undergrad thesis on..." Neal went on, _really_ drawing this out. When it was obvious that no one in the room had read his undergrad thesis, he finally got to the point, " _Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812_!"

The reaction wasn't as bombastic as Neal might have wanted (he seemed to be expecting the same whoops and cheers as Lorraine received during the budget breakdown), but everyone seemed basically pleased. There was a smattering of applause, a few, "Good for you!"s. And then some polite apologies as people reached around him to get at the quesadillas.

"Maybe the actors will be more excited," Neal commented, stepping closer to Erik and Charlotte so he wasn't mauled by the production staff in pursuit of sour cream and salsa. He looked down at Erik, happy as he'd ever been. "So, what do you think? You excited?"

"Oh, sure," Erik nodded, giving Neal a closed-mouthed smile. "I really like that show, I think it's a shame it closed so soon. I saw it in New York."

Not a great night. Alexis had gone too, but disliking the audience participation, got fed up and left at intermission. Erik opted to stay to the finale, prompting a pretty nasty fight when he got back to the hotel. Any decision he made that was in opposition to Alexis's wishes resulted in a nasty fight. God, they hadn't just been red flags, they'd been...red fucking matador capes and he'd been too pathetic to notice them until it was way too late.

 _Forget it,_ he told himself sternly. _Just don't think about it. You're with Dalir. That's...done. That's over. Don't obsess._

So focused was Erik on _not_ focusing that he missed Neal's next grand pronouncement.

"Great! So you saw their orchestra set-up and everything? That's awesome, you'll be all set, Mr. Music Director."

Neal nudged Erik on the arm when he didn't get the response he was expecting.

"Sorry, what?" Erik asked, squinting up at him.

" _Mr. Music Director,_ " Neal repeated, slowly. "Didn't your dad tell you?"

Erik looked at his father who was double-fisting wings and quesadillas without a care in the world. "Tell me what?"

"Neal asked your dad if you'd be game to be music director for _Great Comet_ ," Charlotte said, frowning. "Didn't Gerry tell you?"

"He told me absolutely!" Neal said, not catching on that one third of their conversational trio had no idea what the _hell_ was going on. 

The room felt really hot and really crowded and really loud. Erik locked in on his father, who was chatting with Stace and Jean-Claude. Oblivious. Well, that made two of them.

"'Scuse me," Erik muttered, leaving his phone and his beer behind as he picked his way through the crowd and made it to his dad. Tapping him on the shoulder, he tried to keep his breathing and volume under control as he asked, "Can I talk to you for a minute? Alone."

For a second it looked like Dad was going to put him off, but when he turned around and actually looked into Erik's eyes, he seemed to think better of it. He left his plates on the table and followed Erik down into the stairwell that led to the function room, which was blessedly deserted. 

"Did you sign me up to be Music Director for Neal's show?" Erik asked without preamble.

Dad didn't even look remotely chagrined. He nodded and said, "Yeah, I mean, you did it for free for the last one, I figured I'd get you on the books now. Rehearsals don't start for three months, you've got lots of time to work it into your schedule. Why, you busy?"

No. He wasn't busy, Dad knew that. The nature of his work meant he could work rehearsals and production meetings into his schedule fairly easily. Dad knew that too. But...still. He had the right to do nothing with his time. Didn't he?

"That's not the...I mean...you should have _told_ me," Erik concluded, a little lamely and there was a distinct whine in his voice that made him feel really little-kidish even though he was an adult with a mortgage and college debt. Recalling that he was, in fact, and adult, he amended, "You should have _asked_ me."

"Why?" Dad asked, brow furrowing. "You're saying you won't do it?"

"No," Erik said, part of his mind already caving in, knowing he was going to agree in the end. "I just...I mean...I think you should have _consulted_ me - _Great Comet_? I mean, really? Neal's just going to watch a boot on YouTube and copy it - he already told me that my having seen the show and what they did with the band will be this huge asset! Like...and vocally, the show is _demanding_. How many of our company members are up to it? And what about _Glengarry Glen Ross?_ "

"You hate Mamet," Dad replied, unmoved.

"Okay, so do you!" Erik countered, like that was a real argument. Unbelievably, the words of Darren Fucking Wong echoed in his head. _You need to stand up for yourself, bro._

But Dad was already talking. He hadn't gone as far down the stairs as Erik had, so he was looming over him, just like he did when Erik was younger. It didn't matter that he was taller than his Dad now, all he had to do was give him the patented, 'Erik, After All I've Done For You' look he instantly felt about two inches tall. "Exactly, when Neal wanted to change the season, I was thrilled. Honestly, kiddo, I don't know where this is coming from. You like being busy, this'll give you something to do."

"I have things to do," Erik retorted. "Contracts I'm filling - contracts I will fill, in the future, hopefully."

"Something outside the house," Dad clarified. "Something...you know. With other people."

Erik folded his arms and muttered, "Oh, you want me around people now? This is new." 

"Erik," Dad said in his I'm-taking-no-bullshit tone. "People you know. Who know you. Who _trust_ you."

Trust. If there was anything that was going to put the nail in the coffin of Erik's protests it was that word. Trust. 'How can I ever trust you again?' Dad screamed at him when he was sixteen, brandishing a pill bottle with the label torn off at him. A pill bottle that didn't belong to him. 'I trusted you,' he gritted out last year, almost to the day. Dad sprawled on a reclining hospital chair as Erik lay in bed, IVs in his arm, an oxygen mask over his face. 'That was clearly a huge fucking mistake.'

"You want me to go back upstairs?" Dad asked, his tone challenging. "I can. Say I was wrong. You're busy or something."

"No," Erik shook his head, swallowing hard, cutting his eyes to the side, unable to look at his dad anymore, unwilling to see that disappointed and devastated expression again. Never again, he vowed last year. Never again would he let him down. "I'll do it."

"Okay," Dad said, clasping Erik's left shoulder briefly. His grip tightened and he nodded toward the closed function room door. "Come on, let's go back up."

"But we're going to need to schedule auditions," Erik continued as he trudged up the stairs after his father. "If you want to have a good show, we're going to have to cast a wide net, maybe bring people in from New York - "

"Neal's got a friend of his in mind for Pierre, he's on a tour now, but his contract ends in July," Dad said. "But I agree about bringing new people in, I'll talk to Rachel about PR, posting for auditions on the usual websites. It'll be tough though, everyone's already contracted out this time of year. We'll get the rejects."

"Well, you should have thought about that when you decided to change up the season at the last minute..."

It hadn't mattered when Erik found out - could have been a month ago, or a day before rehearsals started, it didn't matter in the end. His dad asked him to do something. He agreed. Gerry'd given up his whole life taking care of Erik, the absolutely least Erik could do to repay him was give up a few hours out of his schedule for his father.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Transition chapter, to get the cast together - then auditions!

When Dalir woke up in the middle of the night and heard Erik murmuring from the living room, he thought his mom must have called. A head-ache inducing look at the bright light of his phone confirmed that it was after two in the morning. Ever since she'd come back to the east coast, she called him sometimes, Erik's mom. Really late at night and Erik picked up every time, shuffled off to the living room to take the call so he didn't wake Dalir up. Dalir usually woke up anyway, and his tone was always the same: tired, but patient, faintly soothing. 

Dalir rolled over to his other side to look at the bedside table. Mask was gone. Apparently Erik intended to be in the living room for some time. When he stretched a tentative hand out to touch the other side of the bed, he felt that it was cold. Apparently Erik had already been up for a while.

Intending to go back to sleep, Dalir tried to tune Erik out, but his voice carried and he started piecing together words and sentences as his brain woke up.

"...did your flight get in?...or are you waiting for a transfer - wow. Okay...JFK? Do you need a ride?...Well, no, but Darren Wong...okay. That's fine, no, no, don't worry. I'll stay on the line as long as you need."

Dalir sat up, living up to his reputation as the nosiest man east of the Mississippi. His mom flew in? Like, from Connecticut? And Erik was going to ask _Darren_ to pick her up? Why didn't she get an Uber? 

Uncharitably, he thought they didn't have _room_ for another houseguest. What was wrong with staying with her mom and sister? Wasn't that the plan when Erik's mother decided to move back home?

Too full of questions and curiosity to sleep, Dalir got up and padded out to the living room. Erik was lying in the dark on the couch. His mask was on, but he hadn't tied it; the phone was on speaker and Dalir listened to the tinny voice on the other line; not Erik's mom. A younger-sounding woman without the raspy quality leftover from smoke inhalation and scarred vocal chords. Christine?

"I'm so sorry," the voice sniffled - crying over the phone. "I know you've...got a lot going on, so I didn't tell you, but I know you, like, don't sleep so I thought..."

"I'm okay," Erik said, arm thrown over his head, oblivious to Dalir's arrival. "I'm...good, I'm fine. You're definitely having a shittier time than me right now."

A shaky laugh on the other line, "That's what I said to myself, like, 'Well, Erik's life kind of has sucked recently, but my life has sucked _more_ recently...God, you know, I held it together when I said 'bye to Dante, but I freaking _lost it_ when we landed. Like...I collapsed outside the bathroom. I think people thought I was insane."

"You've been holding a lot in, so that makes sense," Erik said, sighing deeply. "Are you staying with your parents?"

"Yeah," the voice said, sounding a little more put-together. "For now. Just - like, how am I going to pay my loans? Even if we're not renting, there's that. And I don't want to do the whole marriage thing if he's going to take on my debt without me contributing anything."

Erik rolled onto his side, back to Dalir who was hovering behind the couch like a ghost who didn't know how to mind his own business. Now that he'd established it wasn't Ms. Mantova on the line, he figured he should just go back to bed, but his curiosity was piqued. Endeavoring to make more noise, Dalir walked around the couch, giving Erik a wave. _Everything okay?_ he mouthed.

Erik looked up and shook his head, holding the mask on with one hand as he sat up and tied the strings to keep it in place. He continued talking to the person on the phone, "I think - are you still venting or are you open to reason?"

"...I don't know, try reason and we'll see how I take it."

"I don't think you're going to be _destitute_ ," Erik said, picking up the phone, taking the call off speaker so that Dalir couldn't listen in anymore. "You'll probably be able to find _something_ that pays. Plenty of places hold late season auditions. The PAC is doing that - do you _want_ to? Yeah, for _Great Comet_. No, I think it's a great idea, I just wasn't sure...three-something? Between three and four. No, but sometimes theatrical nepotism - right, and _you're_ talented. And you wouldn't even need to sleep with me."

 _Who the hell are you talking to?_ Dalir wondered, not alarmed, but perplexed. Even though the call was off speaker, the voice at the other end laughed loudly at Erik's last comment - and finished with a spectacular snort. 

"Oh, good," Erik said, sounding relieved. "Yep. No problem. And I love you too. Tell your dad I said hi. Okay. Yes, love you. 'bye, honey."

Erik put the phone down on the coffee table and sighed again, scrubbing a hand through his hair, making it stick up more than it already was from bedhead. Dalir waited patiently by for an explanation, but Erik was silently, appearing half-asleep and exhausted by the phone call. Clearly he needed some prompting.

"So..." Dalir started expectantly.

Erik got off, shuffling back toward the bedroom. 

"I'll tell you when I'm horizontal," he muttered, looking at the oven clock. "She kept me on the phone for over an hour..."

The bedroom door shut, mask back on the side table, Erik crawled under the covers and Dalir was soon to join him, keeping a few inches between their bodies; this was information-gathering time, not cuddle time. 

"That was Mia," Erik said finally, back to Dalir, face obscured by the angle and the darkness. Even after months of being together, he was still most at ease with his face hidden. Dalir tried not to let it sting too much; after twenty years of wearing a mask around everyone, it was going to take more than a few I-love-yous and I-don't-mind-the-way-you-looks to change ingrained habits and anxieties. 

"Mia of Mia-and-Dante?" Dalir asked, trying to place the name. It was confusing, Erik had a friend named Mia who lived in Germany and a cousin named Maya who lived in New Haven. Sometimes he forgot which was which. "Wedding Mia? She called from Germany?"

"She called from JFK," Erik corrected him, then told him a truncated story of why Mia called him hysterical in the middle of the night. The show she had been performing in closed in March, and the show she'd been in rehearsals for was canceled due to issues with funding. Her agency was downsizing and as one of their new hires who was only commanding a modest salary, they dropped her. All this happened within the span of two months and though she'd been auditioning everywhere, no one was hiring. She and her fiance decided to cut their losses and come back to the US in hopes that he could get a stage managing gig and she could find work closer to home while they worked on building a nest egg. Apparently neither of them abided by the adulting rule of always having at least six months worth of rent in their savings accounts in case of unexpected unemployment. 

"Wedding's postponed too - she wants to eat the deposits, not go deeper into credit card debt," Erik added. "Now's not a great time for them to make big financial decisions."

"Yeah, I can see that," Dalir nodded. One thing he found alarming about all of Erik's theatre friends was how precarious their employment situations were - look at Christine! Six months ago she'd been working steadily in a tour. Now freaking out about paying her rent because she wasn't getting cast in anything. He understood that auditions were like job interviews in theory, but in practice the whole thing seemed like a crapshoot. Obviously he'd weathered a few unexpected career changes, but he liked to consider himself a guy with a large quantity of transferable skills. Being able to sing well didn't necessarily open up a world of opportunities in the real world. "Um. Was she getting work through her agency?"

"Yeah, they were getting her seen, getting a foot in the door - cattle call auditions are brutal, you're just in a room with fifty, a hundred, two hundred people who look like you and sound like you and then you're expected to stand out enough to get hired," Erik explained. "And it's one thing to get into a show, another to get into a show that pays _and_ she's Equity, so that can put up more hurdles than it takes away if you're on your own."

Dalir nodded like he understood. He had only a few more hours to get some shut-eye before work, but he felt fairly wide awake. "I mean, it's like you said though, she's not going to be homeless. She could temp or get a coffee shop job or something."

"Mmm," Erik made a noise that let Dalir know he'd heard him, even if he didn't agree with him. "Starbucks has benefits."

Ah, yes, sweet, sweet benefits. One of the many perks (in addition to a set schedule and regular vacation time) of his new job. 

"But it's kind of soul-sucking," Erik continued quietly. "Look at Darren. Yeah, the Apple Store pays the bills, but you know, you spend all your time practicing and you sink your education and money into something you love, you _think_ you've got talent - and he quit his old job, he wasn't let go. But after a while, even me...I mean, do you think I'd spend all my time _editing_ if I had the choice? Arranging is better, but...if it was possible? I'd just...play. If I could make my living playing and composing, I'd do it, but that just doesn't happen for most people. We can't all be Sondheim or Miranda or Schwartz or...you get the picture."

And yet Dalir didn't. Not really. Like, obviously, he didn't bandy this opinion around, but he often wondered, especially since Darren became their perpetual houseguest why they couldn't just get regular jobs and do the theatre thing on the side. There were lots of plays and music events going on, after all. In an attempt to be helpful, Dalir would alert Darren to every listing that came up on the local employment listservs he'd subscribed to when he was looking for regular work. Darren turned almost every one down. 

'It's gotta pay, it's gotta _be_ something,' was his excuse. Otherwise it wasn't worth his time. Or, he implied, his talent.

"I never thought I'd say this," Erik murmured, rolling onto his back, staring at the ceiling. "But thank God for Neal and his last-minute subs. At least I can offer her _that._ She should have called sooner. I would have tried to do something for her...but she didn't want to _bother_ me..."

This part of addiction recovery was hard, Dalir knew. Well, all of it was hard. From detox to rehab, to getting healthy physically, mentally, but reintegrating into the world had its challenges too. Quieter challenges, but they could wear a person down. Trying to feel normal. Trying to reestablish oneself as someone trustworthy, someone stable. Someone others could lean on when they needed to, who could be a _source_ of support for friends and family going through rough patches, rather than a seeker of support for themselves.

Speaking of others needing support...

Dalir tentatively spoke up to ask, "What about Christine? She's looking too? Right?"

The pause before he answered was so long, Dalir almost thought Erik had fallen asleep, except for the hitch in his breathing. 

"Yeah," Erik confirmed, voice subdued. "I don't...I don't want her to feel pressured. Like I'm...taking advantage of her situation to...lure her up here or something. I posted the audition notice on Facebook, she probably saw it. If she takes it, she takes it, but I'm not saying anything to her. It's a tough time of year, though. Summerstock's already in rehearsals. And regional theatres hiring for next year's season have done their castings already. Unless someone takes maternity leave or gets a better offer or, like, tears their Achilles tendon..."

He trailed off, shaking his head, one hand coming up to massage his temples, block the vague view of his face Dalir was afforded once his eyes got used to the darkness again. 

"Well, I mean, there's always my solution," Dalir said, trying to lighten the mood. "You guys quit being so damn picky and get a solid 9 to 5. Do the artsy thing as a hobby." 

Erik whipped his head around to look at Dalir, astonished, until he realized he was mostly kidding. Then his shoulders shook like he was stifling a laugh. He turned over and pressed a quick kiss to Dalir's lips. 

"I love you a lot," he said, his tone _ever_ so slightly condescending. "But - no offense - you don't know what you're talking about."

Dalir grinned in the dark and shifted closer, draping and arm around Erik's waist and pulling him closer. "Nope. But if it's all the same to you, I'm going to sleep - I have to wake up for my boring, non-artsy 9 to 5 tomorrow. What're your plans?"

"Mm," Erik sighed, laying a hand over Dalir's arm, using his free hand to pull the covers over both of them more securely. "Editing. Playing, if I'm lucky."

The last bit was said almost wistfully, but Erik's breathing was evening out and Dalir found sleep tugging at his brain too - not so much that he couldn't help making one final quip, though.

"Whole Foods has benefits too. I bet you'd make a great bagger. Redheads look great in green."

"Ha. Shut up and go to sleep, Dalir."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was a rough morning and writing this makes me happy, so here's a new chapter!

There were lots of pithy sayings about the theatre: _All the world's a stage. A play ought to be the point of intersection between the visible and invisible worlds. The most immediate way a human being can share with another the sense of what it means to be a human being._ But Erik thought that the theatre, from a production standpoint, could best be summed up by four words: Wait, then hurry up.

It was Audition Day. The last two weeks past in a flurry of production meetings, at which he played only a minor role - that of admirer and appreciator of others' talent. One of their usual rotating set designers, Hillary Tan, persuaded Gerry to use the main stage for Great Comet, arguing that the lush interior of the auditorium would enhance the set design and really bring the audience into the show.

As she described it, her concept was Lost Generation - the main stage auditorium had a lush, red and gold art deco look and she enhanced it with a set design that mirrored it, allowing for seating areas on stage for audience members to support the interaction inherent in the initial production that Erik liked and Alexis loathed. The script didn't _demand_ it, but Neal thought it was edgy and Hillary liked the challenge of turning their very conventional proscenium into a theatre-in-the-round.

The in-house costume designer, Larry Davis, took the Lost Generation idea and ran with it - adding a millennial twist. In his concept of the show, the characters would start in modern dress and add pieces over the course of the show that would take them back to 1812, most strongly pinging the period during 'The Ball' and 'Letters', the Act One closing and Act Two opening, then take the pieces away again so that they were more or less in modern dress by the finale.

"I'm not doing any of that ABC Family punk rock shit," he said warningly to Neal when he revealed his sketches. "There won't be a single ripped fishnet on that stage or so help me, I'm off the project."

Neal said he was fine with modern dress as long as everything looked 'lush.' Erik looked over the sketches and nodded appreciatively along with everyone else, his binder containing the libretto and his notes untouched on a work table. He did as much prep as he could, but the orchestrations would have to wait until the cast was set and he knew what level of talent he was working with.

Actors playing their own instruments, as in the Broadway run, charmed Neal and he wanted to incorporate that as much as possible into his take on the show. Marshall Briggs, Neal's friend who was currently on tour, but tentatively contracted to play Pierre, was a deft hand at the piano. Wendy Kazarian, one of the regular in-house players who'd been Fraulein Schneider in _Cabaret_ , was slated for Maria Dmitrievna and played guitar. Charlotte, Neal's choice for Helene, played nothing at all except for the recorder and had no desire to learn an instrument for the show.

There were a few other PAC regulars who were cast in some minor ensemble roles, like Luke Kim, another _Cabaret_ alum. He was intended to play the absent Andrei, but he didn't play an instrument, joking when he was asked that he was the only Korean kid he knew whose parents didn't sign him up for music classes when they enrolled him in Kindergarten. They'd be hiring musicians for the pit (though it was below his preferred salary, Darren expressed interes since indulging his hammy side was too good an opportunity to pass up), but Erik wouldn't tolerate actors bouncing around the stage pretending to play along; Larry wasn't the only one with artistic integrity.

Although a few of the main characters were already cast, auditions were still crucial. There were so many big parts that were open - Natasha, Sonya, Anatole, and Dolokhov, to name a few. Neal's hope was they'd get some fresh talent from the college who hadn't moved home yet, eager to get a professional, paying job. Evidently, Neal was a little worried about his last minute show sub; he texted Erik a few times in the weeks leading up to auditions, telling him to _please_ bother his actor-friends, had he posted about it on Facebook, on Instagram, did he follow any professional listservs?

Erik spread the word as far as he could without seeming desperate. He knew Mia had registered for a slot, and several of his friends from high school and college expressed interest, but mostly said the distance wasn't workable for them; many of them lived in New York and Boston, and didn't want to go to the trouble of finding lodgings upstate for a temporary job that didn't pay enough to be worth it.

So Erik honestly told Neal that he tried, but he didn't look at the audition register to see if he spotted any familiar names; he had reason to suspect that Christine _might_ have decided to head back north before her lease needed to be renewed. Jean-Claude made a passing comment to him that it was nice he had friends who were willing to work with them, but next time they were under a time crunch, Erik should make more of an effort to reach out to the guys he knew.

It was going to be a twelve-hour day. They started seeing people at the ungodly hour of eight in the morning when no one had the right to be in good voice. Erik was sitting in, trying to be unobtrusive in the back, but Neal, oblivious to the potential discomfort of the actors, insisted on Erik sitting right behind him so that they could chat about the actors more easily.

Couldn't be easy, especially for people new to the PAC to attempt to deliver a 2-minute monologue and 3-minute song, while a bleary-eyed masked man chugging an extra-large Butter Pecan iced coffee was staring at them and taking extensive notes. But maybe there was a method to Neal's madness; if the actors were thrown by a weirdo at the audition, how could they be expected to stay in character and keep their composure if a baby started crying, a cell phone went off, or someone spend the entire show munching on a bag of chips?

They broke for lunch at 11, and Dalir brought Erik a bagged lunch from Wendy's, eating with him in his car in the parking lot. As Erik scarfed down fries and chicken strips, Dalir regaled him with tales from his childhood; anything to get his mind off of auditions so he was mentally clear for the afternoon.

"I mean, I wasn't heart-set on it," Dalir continued an ongoing story about his failed attempt to convince his parents that he should play football. He paused to sip his Frosty. "My friends were doing it, I figured, I'd ask. So I said, 'Mom, would it be okay for me to go to football camp this summer?'

And she - like, no hesitation, goes, 'No.' And I, I don't know, I was like ten and indignant, even though I didn't _really_ care about football. So I ask why. And she just takes my head in her hands," Dalir put the Frosty back in the cupholder, holding his hands up for emphasis, cupping the empty air. "And looks in my eyes. And says, 'No.' Then she kissed my forehead. And _that_ is when I knew my mom thought I was stupid."

Whatever conclusion Erik had been expecting when he asked Dalir about his experiences with youth sports, that was _not_ it. Thank God he'd finished his iced tea; he was not the kind of person for whom snorting liquid out of his nose was a minor inconvenience.

He laughed instead and, feeling like he should try to contradict him to be a good boyfriend, said, "Oh, come on, I'm sure she didn't mean it like that."

"She absolutely did," Dalir insisted. "Her mouth said no, her eyes said, 'You're not a kid who can afford to lose any brain cells.' I mean, you can get concussions in soccer - I _did_ get a concussion once - but I guess she thought football was guaranteed TBI."

"I mean, yeah," Erik nodded, trying to sound knowledgeable. "Will Smith made a movie about it."

It was Dalir's turn to laugh. "Man, you are so out of touch. Anyway. How's try-outs going?"

"Eh," Erik replied, a word which summed up his feelings about the day adequately, but didn't really give Dalir anything to go on. "It's okay. No one spectacular - no one really bad, though, which is good. There was this kid I've never seen before, Raul Chavez, he was okay. He picked a lousy song though, 'On the Street Where You Live.'"

Dalir shrugged, "Never heard of it."

"Oh, you have," Erik insisted. Off Dalir's blank expression, he sang the first few bars, but though Dalir smiled, he still shrugged when Erik was concluded.

"I know music the way you know sports," he reminded him. Checking his phone to note the time, he added, "I've got to get going in a few minutes, want to grab something from Tim Horton's?"

"Dunkin, please," Erik requested. They had a better iced coffee flavor selection and if he was going to last until eight, he was going to need caffeine _and_ sugar.

It was _hot_ and Erik was conscious of the fact that he'd sweat through his button-down; the AC at the PAC was on the fritz, but they weren't about to reschedule auditions over it. He could only hope his deodorant didn't fail before they broke for dinner.

When they finished their coffee run and pulled back in front of the theatre, Erik asked Dalir, "Do I smell bad?"

Dalir leaned in, like a good, obliging boyfriend, and took a whiff. "Not actively funky, but not fresh as a daisy either - hold on."

He unbuckled and rifled around the backseat of his car, digging through his gym bag. He removed a stick of Old Spice and a clean t-shirt.

"I just washed this one, it's not super professional, but it doesn't have any pit stains," he said, holding the shirt out.

Erik hesitated. It wasn't that the t-shirt was unprofessional; Neal's uniform consisted of black t-shirts and jeans, even Dad, who was also sitting in on auditions, was wearing a short-sleeved polo shirt. Erik had opted for sleeves because he _always_ opted for sleeves in public. It was easier. Except for days like this.

"Thanks," Erik said, grabbing the shirt and deodorant in one hand, coffee in the other. He leaned over and gave Dalir a quick peck. "Wish me luck."

"Break a leg?" Dalir offered, adorably. "You home for dinner?"

Erik shook his head. "Nope, I'm probably not going to be back until nine or ten, depending on how long Neal wants to chat. Dad'll drop me off, you and Darren are flying solo tonight."

"Oh, cool," Dalir replied, unenthusiastically.

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

Anxiety churned in Erik's stomach; it didn't sit well with the nuggets and fries. "Um. I know I initially said he was going to stay for a 'little while,' and I understand if 'a little while' didn't...um. If you didn't take it to mean...five months _is_ a lot, so thanks for being patient and - "

Dalir leaned over the center console and kissed him to make him shut up; it was one of his favorite tactics for stopping one of Erik's anxiety spirals in its tracks. None of his therapists ever recommended it as part of his CBT, but Erik couldn't deny it was both effective and _very_ nice.

"Relax," Dalir smiled. "It's fine, we just have _literally_ nothing in common. It's okay, as long as he doesn't make me watch that YouTube series with the Australian violin players, we're good."

Erik exhaled; Dalir was great. Dalir wasn't mad. His boyfriend didn't hate his best friend. Erik wasn't going to have to kick Darren out. They were good. It was good.

Juggling shirt, Old Spice, and coffee, Erik managed to nevertheless send off a text to Darren before he re-entered the theatre.

**Busy at the PAC until 10. Dalir's home at 4. DO NOT PUT ON TWOSETVIOLIN.**

Darren's reply came as Erik was donning Dalir's shirt in the bathroom, having freshened up as best he could. It was a picture of a smilie face and a thumb's up. Okay. Phew. One less thing to worry about.

Dalir's workout shirts were slightly oversized on him, which meant they were slightly too tight for Erik. He plucked at the material around his stomach, trying in vain to stretch it out; in addition to being clean the shirt was also pretty new, so it just suctioned itself to him as soon as he let go. A trickle of sweat beaded down the back of Erik's neck; so much for this plan. Maybe no one would say anything.

Wishful thinking; his luck had only ever stretched so far. Stage Manger Stace whistled as he approached a back entryway to the auditorium, which she thoughtfully held open for him. "Yeow! Hey there, Mr. Hard Body, got any tickets left for that gun show?"

"It's hot," Erik mumbled, eyes on the ground, grip tightening around his iced coffee which was sweating more than he was. When he entered the auditorium, he saw that fans had been conspicuously placed on the stage and in the audience, on the table where Dad and Neal were sitting and had headshots, resumes, and notebooks spread out. Poor Beth, their accompanist, as stuck suffering it out since a fan would blow the sheet music clear off the piano. She was wearing capris and a sleeveless blouse and gave Erik a sympathetic smile when he walked in.

Dad glanced him over and shook his head, "I'm call the the HVAC company tomorrow, we can't live like this."

"You're telling me," Erik muttered, tugging the collar of Dalir's shirt away from his neck and slinking down as low in his chair as he could. "Ready to go?"

"Just waiting for Stace to get back - aha, speak of the devil..." Neal trailed off as the light on his abandoned headset blinked red. He brought it to his ear and asked, "Hey, you good? Ok, great. Yep, send her in. Ha. Yeah, I'll tell him."

Neal replaced the headset and grinned over his shoulder at Erik, "She said she likes your shirt."

Erik feigned intense interest in organizing his notes and acted like he didn't hear him.

"I'm just saying," Neal continued, oblivious to his discomfort. "I'd take that as one hell of a compliment - I mean, if you're turning lesbian heads - "

"We're starting," Dad interrupted. There wasn't any real reason for the PAC's general manager to preside over auditions, but Dad often insisted when it came to Neal; he wasn't so awed by his artistic genius that he couldn't admit that often he needed to be kept in check.

"Christine Daee!"

So much for being unobtrusive and nonchalant. Erik's head snapped up at the mention of her name, even as his brain said, _Maybe it's another girl..._

Not a chance. He'd never even heard the last name 'Daee' before he met her. She had to have told Stace how to pronounce it before she came in. She looked adorable in a white sundress and her hair was short, all dark brown, she'd buzzed off her blonde fauxhawk. Erik sat still and rigid as she walked to center stage, not sure if she would acknowledge him, not sure if he should acknowledge her, not sure...just not _sure._

But then she caught his eye. Smiled. And gave a little wave.

He felt himself start to breathe again, not realizing that he'd stopped. He waved back, but couldn't quite manage a smile.

Christine introduced herself to Neal and Dad, as Stace brought her headshot and resume over to their table to add to the pile. Erik glanced down at his father, but Gerry did an admirable job keeping his voice neutral and eyebrows under control during their brief smalltalk prior to Christine's monologue, (Masha from _The Three Sisters_ , Neal wanted everyone to do a Chekhov to see if they had 'Russian flair', whatever that meant). And for her song, she chose 'Soon,' from _A Little Night Music._ It was perfect, but it should be; they'd spent hours working on it together.

Immediately Erik started to spiral. _Was that a message? Was that...did that mean something? Did it mean she wants to be friends again? Not just text-buddies? That she forgives me? Oh, for the love of God, Erik, calm down, it might just be her best audition song..._

But his train of thought was interrupted by Neal. No sooner had Christine left the room than he whipped around in his seat and jabbed Erik in the knee with his pencil.

"Natasha, right?" he asked rhetorically. "Like, we don’t need to see anyone else, do we? She even _looks_ like the Broadway girl.”

 _In that Denee Benton is black…sure,_ Erik thought, but all he said was, “I agree.”

Now that Christine was out of the room, Dad allowed his brow to furrow.

“Okay, well, first of all, we’re still going to see people," he said, cautiously, looking between Erik and Neal as if he wasn't sure which of them was the one he was most annoyed with. "And Neal, keep an open mind – "

“Open mind," Neal repeated innocently, nodding and wide-eyed. "Yep. Open. Like a book.”

Then he flipped over Christine's resume and drew little stars all around the word *****NATASHA*** i** n giant letters.

Giving Neal up as a hopeless case, Dad focused on Erik.

“Okay," he said, taking a deep breath, like he was preparing for a long argument. "Look, I don’t want to bring up ancient history, but – “

“Don’t punish her because of me,” Erik spoke up at once. “If someone better comes along, fine, but…look, you can find someone else to handle the music, if you’d rather I not – "

“Oh, God, did you guys fuck or something?” Neal asked, looking up from Christine’s resume with real interest. Gerry put his head in his hands as Erik exclaimed, “NO!” so loudly that Stace stuck her head in the door and asked if they were ready for the next girl.

The Christine conversation was put on hold, but though they saw a bevy of talented young ladies (Erik starred all the girls who said they were proficient in one or more instruments, especially strings or woodwinds), no one could touch her for sheer vocal brilliance. Ahem. Not that Erik was biased.

There was one amusing break in the pattern of the day when Mia showed up to audition. She stood before them with a face of stone as Stace handed over her resume, giving no indication that she knew anyone in the room. She was actually introducing herself when Gerry interrupted her.

“Honey, you carpooled to school with us for two years, but don’t worry. I won’t hold it against you.”

That cracked her ultra-professional demeanor and Mia broke into a huge grin, “I was going through a dark patch, Mr. C. Evanescence spoke directly to my soul.”

Erik stifled a smile behind his hands and prepared a text to send once Mia was actually out of the audition. **You are an embarrassment.**

After Mia got through her monologue (Masha, but from _The Seagull_ , not _Three Sisters_ ) and her song (“Starchild” from _Ghost Quartet_ ) it became painfully obvious that she was gunning for Sonya. A glance down at Neal’s notes revealed that she was succeeding. ****???SONYA???** **written in the same big letters he'd used on the back of Christine's resume.

She texted Erik back almost as soon as she got his text, ****Your DAD is an embarrassment – WHO TALKS ABOUT CAR POOLS?!?!?!?!?!** **accompanied by a green-faced, vomiting emoji. He knew she was worried about finances, knew she was suffering a bit of a confidence lull since her agency dropped her, so when Neal made a big deal of shielding her resume with his notes from Gerry's view and holding it up for Erik to see, Erik gave him a thumb's up. A bit of theatrical nepotism never hurt a soul, right?

Anyway, she was talented. It wasn't like the day was a bust, they saw plenty of people who showed promise, like the Chavez kid, but a glance at the resumes showed that most of the auditioners were green, some painfully so, just out of college or the conservatory. People like Christine and Mia stood out, from the songs they chose, to the quality of their voices, their list of credentials. It made sense to give them big parts because, in addition to the vocal and dramatic chops, they could also handle the demands of a professional production.

Of course, credentials could be padded. At the end of the night, when everyone was on their last nerve and way beyond their last cup of coffee, Stace announced the last name - Isaac Estrella, but he didn't come in with her when she brought the resume out.

"Bathroom," she informed them when Neal asked after his whereabouts. "He'll be out in a minute, he's been waiting since you guys took your dinner break, we gave him the last slot."

"Headshot?" Dad asked, shuffling through the papers like he'd misplaced it.

Stace shook her head, "He found out about this last-minute, from a friend of a friend or something - don't worry, once you see him, you won't forget him."

"That sounds ominous," Erik muttered, looking over Isaac's resume; impressive, but also slightly random and he suspected exaggeration. For instance, one of his recent roles at a small Manhattan opera house, was listed as being 'Egerman' from _A Little Night Music._ According to the guy's CV, he was twenty-seven. Egerman was at least in his forties, likely Isaac was the understudy in the production with a regular minor role, like, Butler #2.

"Isaac Estrella!" Stace called from the wings.

Erik's phone buzzed. A not-so-discreet text from Neal. ****Freaks at the end of the night!****

Even his dad's professional demeanor cracked.

"Oh, what the _hell_?" he muttered, too low for Isaac to hear, but Erik caught it and kicked the back of his chair. That was mean. Not...completely without merit. But still. Mean.

Stace hadn't been wrong when she said they wouldn't forget him, even without a photograph to reference. Twenty-seven Isaac might be, but he did read older onstage – and by ‘older’ Erik meant ‘potentially a zombie’ because the guy was stick-skinny and not in a fashionably gaunt way. He looked like a cartoon character – no, scratch that, _claymation_ , like Tim Burton’s ideal figure of man, long arms and legs, wearing a black button-down dress shirt and black pinstripe pants which only exaggerated how long and lean his legs were. Stace wasn’t a small girl, but Isaac towered over her; Erik thought he might even be taller than _him_ , which was one hell of an accomplishment. He looked like a goth Tommy Tune. Actually, that was an insult to Tommy Tune, who had boyish good looks in his favor. Far be it from Erik to critique anyone else’s face (and Isaac had a face, which was more than could be said for him), but he was the pointiest person Erik had ever seen. Pointy chin, jutting brow, pointy cheekbones, pointy ears that stuck out, awkwardly big pointy nose. He had a nice haircut. That was the best that could be said about him.

Erik glanced over Neal's shoulder. He'd already turned over the resume and was scrawling onto his sheet, **P. BOLKONSKY?!** before Isaac even opened his mouth. Erik looked back at the resume in front of him. _Enjolras 2015-2016 US Tour._ Really?

“Thanks for coming, Isaac,” Dad said, slipping into his end-of-audition-thanks-for-your-time-don't-expect-a-callback spiel a little early.

“Zac’s fine,” Isaac informed them, smiling. He had a lot of teeth. And a really big mouth. Okay, maybe not a zombie. Maybe he looked more like a scarecrow. That said, he made for a pretty passionate and convincing Lopakhin in his monologue ( _Cherry Orchard_!). Zac had a nervous energy in his performance that drew the eye, but also a sense of cool calculation behind it, off-kilter, but in control. Totally solid performance and Erik was thinking that if his voice was decent he might be able to double Old Bolkonsky and Balaga -

But then, he _sang_.

Erik’s pencil dropped from his fingers, rolled off the clipboard on his lap, dropped to the floor and lodged itself into the seat, never to be seen again.

Zac chose “Joanna” from _Sweeney Todd_ which showed off his range – which was beyond impressive. His resume listed him as a tenor (though in his ‘additional skills section’ he wrote out his range and added a cheeky ‘I don’t give a fach,’ for good measure). The tone and clarity with which he sang were out of this world. Fuck sixteen bars, Erik leaned forward in his chair and wished he was hearing the whole song.

 _He won’t have a problem with a C#,_ Erik thought, then wanted to write that down, but realized he’d lost his pencil.

There was silence after he was done. Zac looked around, a little smirk on his face, as if to say, _Yeah. I get that a lot._ Then he coughed and broke the spell.

Dad recovered first. Good old Gerry Carriere and his professionalism. “Ah. So. Came all the way up from Manhattan, I see?”

Zac nodded. Explained that his boyfriend was a grad student at the college nearby and that since he’d followed Zac around the country for the last five years, the least Zac could do was return the favor and stay put for two.

“You’re from New York?” Neal asked, looking at the contact information at the top of the resume.

“Yeah,” Zac replied. It was funny, when he delivered his monologue, it was with perfect inflection and intonation, the standard theatrical American non-accent. But in conversation he slid into a fairly noticeable regional accent, like early career J-Lo. “The Bronx – we have a rental, but I heard about this job last minute, so I haven’t updated my CV to reflect that, but the email and phone numbers are good.”

“We’ll _definitely_ be in touch,” Neal assured him. Then, miracle of miracles, he got out of his seat and went forward to shake Zac’s hand.

Zac accepted the handshake with a smile and waved at Erik and Gerry on his way out – his eyes lingered for an extra second on Erik’s mask, but his creepy scarecrow grin only widened as Stace escorted him back out to the lobby.

No sooner did the door shut than Dad started in on Neal. “Really? We’ll ‘definitely’ be in touch? Why would you say that?”

“Oh, come on! Did you hear him?” Neal asked, gesturing at the empty stage. “He was fucking amazing! Even I know that and I know shit about music! Come on, Erik, back me up – “

“Best male vocalist of the day,” Erik confirmed immediately. _Best male vocalist of the decade._

“But is there a _part_ for him?” Dad pressed, tapping a finger against the half-finished cast list. “I’m not saying he wasn’t great, but you don’t know definitively that there’s a role for him in this show. I think the voice is too polished for Old Bolkonsky or Balaga. Granted, I’m not the end-all, be-all of casting, but – “

“Fuck that, I wrote that down before I head him sing,” Neal said dismissively. “Anatole, right? Or right?”

There was a long, tense silence. Dad folded his arms and looked at Neal coolly. “Anatole.”

“Who else?”

“Anatole.”

“Yes – “

“Anatole,” Gerry continued. “Who, according to the book, is so good-looking that women just...flock to him. That guy – that is one of the ugliest men I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”

Even Erik had to admit that was a little harsh – though not inaccurate. After all, the ugliest man his dad had ever seen was sitting right behind him.

“Distance of ten feet,” Neal retorted hotly.

“People would have to be _outside the building_ for that guy to be a convincing Anatole,” Gerry replied flatly. “That’s why you bring me in on these things, Neal, to get some practical perspective and I’m telling you, it’s not workable. It’s just not. We’ve seen at least three other men so far who would be fine.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Neal grated out, sounding increasingly frustrated. “But not _him_.”

Stace poked her head in and asked, “You guys still need me?"

“No!” Gerry and Neal barked at her with such venom that she drew herself up and glared at them until they apologized.

“You can go, thanks, Stace,” Erik predicted. Then, feeling obligated, added, “Sorry.” Even though he hadn’t been the one to yell at her.

“I’ll take a large iced cold brew, sweet, no cream,” she replied, implying that in order to earn her forgiveness, they had to buy her coffee in the morning.

That could be arranged. Erik wrote down the order on his phone figuring, of the three of them, he'd be the one most likely to remember to pick it up. Stage Manager wrath was nothing to mess with.

“I don’t know why you’re being so quiet,” Neal shot at Erik accusingly. “You might speak up for…um…”

“Oh, what, ugly men united?” Erik asked, looking up from his phone. Neal didn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed. He just nodded like, ‘Well, yeah, you should definitely be defending the right of this not-hot man to play a notoriously hot character.’ “It’s not like…I mean, Anatole's defining characteristic is being hot. Dad’s not _wrong_.”

“But he’s, like, a gem, a _diamond_ ,” Neal pointed out, voice getting more and more shrill. “He just said he’s in town for two years! We could have him for _two years_ and you want to let him slip through our fingers! He’s perfect for this show, he plays an instrument!”

Three, actually: piano, violin, and guitar.

“People exaggerate all the time, he probably sucks at them,” Dad pointed out pessimistically, adding that Zac’s resume also said he had a background in ‘circus experience’ which was vague as hell and that he spoke Spanish _and_ Hebrew.

“I believe it,” Neal replied, unmoved. “Why would he even write that if it wasn’t true?”

They went back and forth like that for a while, Gerry insisting there wasn’t a part for him, Neal insisting that they couldn’t let this guy go – Erik's dreams of getting home by ten were looking more and more unrealistic - when Erik finally spoke up to settle the matter.

“Dolokhov.”

“What?” the two other men asked, turning as one to look at him.

"Dolokhov," Erik repeated. "He's kind of minor - not too important. Heh. Um. But it's a part. He's got a lot of stage-time. And the website listed the salaries so, hopefully he considered that before he came. And, I..."

This was painful. Like, actually physically painful. David the Therapist would consider this a great step forward for Erik's mental health and general work on being a decent human being, but he would be lying if he said it wasn't a struggle.

"I agree with Neal," Erik concluded. "He's talented. Like...insanely talented. If we can get him, we should get him."

It was a minor miracle: Erik, his father, _and_ Neal found themselves in total agreement.

"Dolokhov," Neal noted. "Cool. So. One down. Like...twenty more to go."

Erik went back to his phone and sent a quick text to Dalir. ****Not going to make it home by ten. Might sleep here. Don't wait up.****

 _Buzz._ ****Got it. Darren and I are watching _Bizarre Foods America._ We're good.****

Wow. Agreement in the auditorium. Agreement on Erik's couch. Maybe the rest of the rehearsal process would be smooth sailing.

"Okay, so, like, that Christine girl? Erik's ex or whatever," Neal continued, shuffling headshots. "Natasha, right? _Right?_ "

Erik's optimism dwindled as soon as it came. _Smooth sailing. Fat chance._


	5. Chapter 5

In theory, Erik was working on notating the music for the next day's rehearsal. In practice he was watching Tasty videos where pairs of disembodied hands made everything from ranch burgers to chocolate chip cookies. He should stop. Not in the least because he had to get work done. But mostly because the videos were making him hungry.

Normally he wasn't a procrastinator - okay, that was a lie. He procrastinated on plenty of things he didn't want to do, like scheduling blood work and doctors' visits and doing his taxes. But he wasn't a procrastinator when it came to music and this was a fairly straightforward project. He hadn't even heard the cast sing the score through yet, so he was blissfully unaware of any problem spots. 

Nerves. Had to be nerves, Erik decided, but knowing the root cause of his problem didn't make it any easier to close the window on his computer showing a new pair of hands decorating a cake that was supposed to look like Pikachu. 

The work was not the problem. The work was almost never the problem. The issue, as ever, was _him_.

Because _Great Comet_ was sung-through, he was going to have to work very closely with the actors for long stretches of time. It wouldn't be like _Cabaret_ or other projects at the PAC that he'd assisted in the past. It was a big time commitment, which was the reason his dad insisted on putting him on the payroll. And he'd be working directly with a lot of new people. Face-to-face, as it were. 

When Erik voiced his anxieties to his father, Dad dismissed them immediately. _They saw you at rehearsal, they all took the job. Don't worry about it, you'll be fine._

It wasn't the conversation Erik had been hoping for. Usually when he needed a reality check or someone to clip his wings, Gerry did a fine job of reminding him about all the things he couldn't or should do. Except when it came to the theatre. Except for when it came to a project his dad was invested in. Except for when his putting himself out there worked in the favor of Gerard Carriere.

Erik sighed and rubbed his eyes irritably. He really didn't have the right to get bitter about his dad. Few fathers, he was sure, would have put their lives on hold, uprooted everything, and basically become their kid's full-time nurse, teacher, and best friend the way his dad had done for him. Especially when their kid repaid the favor by spectacularly ruining the life his father fought so hard for him to have not once, but _twice_. 

It was like he told Darren. Dalir. Dave the Therapist (was it possible he had too many men whose names began with 'D' in his life?). He owed his dad. He'd never stop owing him.

So shut down the food videos and get back to work. At least, that was Erik's plan - before his phone buzzed. 

Erik picked it up, expecting the call would come from Dalir - he'd gone home to celebrate the end of Ramadan with his family and already texted to say his flight got in. He figured this message was cute pictures of his niece and nephew, but instead it was a text from Mia.

**Vicious Cabaret is doing a one-night only showing of _Cruel Intentions: The Musical_. Are you in?**

A jukebox musical featuring all the most overplayed radio jams of the late nineties? Actually...yes, yes, he was. Mindless entertainment would do his soul good, he was sure. But a two-hour time suck was the last thing he needed when he was supposed to be Mr. Professional Music Director in the morning.

 **Can't** , Erik typed back. **I need to get ready for tomorrow.**

 **No you don't** ,Mia replied at once. **We haven't even started. You don't have any mistakes to fix yet. It's like Schrodinger's Suckage. We're simultaneously perfect and awful.**

She had a point...but he was notating for himself, not the performers. Erik started to type another 'thanks, but no thanks' message when his phone buzzed again. Not Mia this time, but Darren.

**We're outside! I'm double parked! COME DOWNSTAIRS.**

The offer was even more tempting than watching a video of 'Game Day Dip - FOUR WAYS!' And he couldn't deny it was nice to be wanted. To be asked to go out somewhere just for the sake of going out. Over the past year he'd only experienced that novelty with Dalir. And Dalir was in Michigan. 

"Fuck it," Erik muttered, closing the piano lid. He was a chronic insomniac. He could just finish his notating at 2AM. He did some of his best work at 2AM, after all. The procrastinator's gift - flashes of brilliance, but only at the last possible minute.

**Give me fifteen minutes.**

Fifteen minutes gave him time to put on real pants, deodorant, and grab his mask. Darren had pulled haphazardly into a handicapped spot, which Erik commented on as he got into the passenger side and adjusted the seat back.

"Rude."

"No one else wanted it!" Darren replied, pulling out of the spot and onto the street. "If I saw a placard, I'd move! And way to let me feel the love - aren't you going to tell me you _missed_ me?"

Ramadan wishes were almost definitely Not A Thing, but if they were, Dalir got one - Darren moved out. Since Mia was cast in _Great Comet_ , she decided to get a month-to-month furnished rental in town and Darren moved in with her to split the rent. Erik's only question about the arrangement was why Dante (was he still her fiance if they weren't having a wedding, or was he back to being a boyfriend?) didn't move in with her.

He got a job in the city, was her reply. New York City, she clarified, though Erik figured. Then she didn't say anything else about it and he got the vibe that she didn't want to be asked. Questioning how comfortable Dante would be with his fiancee/girlfriend moving in with another guy would be insulting to all parties involved; Darren and Mia were the brother-sister level of platonic friends and Dante wasn't the jealous type. 

But if the topic of Dante was sensitive, Erik wasn't going to broach it. Instead he turned to Darren and said (in a tone flat as a pancake), "Sorry, I've missed you _sooooooo_ much. You are my sunshine. My _only_ sunshine."

Mia unbuckled and leaned over toward the front seat and threw her arms around Erik's neck from behind, then kissed the back of his head. "You're precious. Come on, Darren Wong, let's drive!"

Even though the car's A/C was in full working order, they rolled the windows down while Mia blasted _Jagged Little Pill_ through the stereo via an auxiliary cable attached to her phone, 'to set the mood,' according to her. Despite the fact that 'You Oughta Know' was the ultimate karaoke jam (take _that_ 'Islands in the Stream') and Mia and Darren were belting along wtih Alanis, Erik couldn't help feeling a little uncomfortable. They were being kind of conspicuous. At red lights people were staring - first at the thirty-year-olds living out their middle school angst at seven o'clock on a Monday night, then by the masked guy _not_ singing along in the passenger seat. 

Erik tried to hunch down, but there was only so much room to hide in the Audi. He missed Dalir's SUV. He missed Dalir and the fact that he could have made an excuse to blow off his friends in favor of hanging out with his boyfriend who'd just gotten back from an agonizingly long three-day trip to visit his folks. _Sorry guys, can't go out, gotta stay in with the windows shut and the curtains drawn. Maybe next time._

Okay, yes, he could have politely requested that they use the air-conditioning and stopped singing along to 'Right Through You', but he didn't. It wasn't like Mia and Darren were being insensitive, it was only that they were picking up right where they left off, like they did every time they got together. Like they'd just graduated from high school yesterday. And, up until two years ago, Erik really loved that about them. The more circumstances changed, the more their friendship stayed the same.

But they hadn't both been in the States at the same time in a year and a half. And circumstances _had_ changed in a year and a half. They were better now, like, leaps and bounds better, but still...

_Remember when you used to leave the house?_

The thought, almost an accusation, came to him as Darren exclaimed over the fact that there were meters in an area that used to provide free parking and took a passionate stand against paying to park downtown. As a result, they wound up driving around for an additional fifteen minutes, trying to find a non-metered spot and walking another ten minutes to the venue. On their way out of the car and down the street, Mia grabbed his left arm, wrapping her hand around his forearm and giving it a squeeze. Erik almost pulled away; worried she'd somehow sense the track marks inches from her fingers and think better of inviting him out.

"You okay?" she asked. "You're really quiet."

"I'm okay," he said, easing his arm out of her grasp and draping it around her shoulders instead. "Thinking of tomorrow. You're right, I probably need a break."

"Well, obvi," she rolled her eyes and wrapped an arm around his waist. "I'm _always_ right."

Darren walked up on Mia's left side and started pointing out all the places they'd gone in high school that weren't there anymore. "Remember how that used to be a Strawberries? Remember how that used to be a Chick-fil-A? Remember how mad we were when we realized we'd be compromising our morals by eating there?"

"Ugh," Mia groaned. "I wasn't mad - Wendy's has better chicken sandwiches and I stand by it."

Darren put a hand melodramatically over his heart. "How  _very_ dare you?"

When Mia's only response was a knowing smirk, Darren applied himself to Erik. 

Unwilling to take sides, Erik just shrugged. "I liked when there was a Johnny Rocket's in that plaza for, like, five minutes."

"You guys have no taste," Darren grumbled as he held the door so they could duck into the Cabaret. "No taste at all - wow. This is. Clean."

Vicious Cabaret had always been one of those awkward downtown arts venues that changed owners a lot, but somehow never really changed its ambiance. There was a tiny room with a stage where they had everything from open mic nights, to plays, to slam poetry events, a gallery space which once featured a 'found materials' showcase which was code for 'items sourced from the garbage and hot glued together.' And a food counter that sometimes had things to eat and sometimes didn't, all accented with dusty corners, grimy tabletops, and a perpetually sticky floor. They loved it in high school, going to Vicious Cabaret made them feel very sophisticated and boho.

Now though? The place crossed the line from boho to bourgeois. The floor was clean and freshly tiled, the tin ceiling had the old black paint scrubbed off and looked shiny-new. The bar was scrubbed and polished and there were stuffed pretzels on order at the food counter. And looking back at the door Darren Wong was holding, Erik saw that the venue had a new name: Vicious Cabaret: A Modern Speakeasy.

"I hate this," Mia declared. "What happened to the _soul_ of this place?"

"I think they had a fire a few years ago," Erik replied, digging into the recesses of his memory to justify the obvious renovation. And the pretzel counter smelled _really_ good; he regretted not grabbing a granola bar on his way out the door. Guinness it was. "Anybody want a drink?"

"Yes and yes," Mia said, already muscling her way toward the bar through the small queue of people waiting to be let into the performance space. "Something tall, dark, and Irish for you, my lovely?"

The leftover anxiety from the car ride was starting to ebb. Mia and Darren were practiced in the art of Going Places with Erik. They'd basically mastered it. Stick close by when entering and leaving an establishment, don't force Erik to interact with staff on his own, talk loudly and cheerfully in order to project an air of 'THIS GUY IS TOTALLY NORMAL AND OKAY!' to all passers-by.

"Yes, please," Erik replied, gratefully. Darren requested the signature cocktail.

"What if they don't have a signature cocktail?" Mia inquired.

Darren laughed. "A place like this? Of course they have a signature cocktail and I bet you five bucks it's made with bourbon."

Darren printed up the tickets online and handed one of the pieces of paper over to Erik, barcode facing up. The cost listed was twenty-five dollars and Erik quickly Venmo'ed Darren the money.

"Why doesn't your boyfriend love Venmo, again?" Darren asked as he accepted the cash on his own phone.

"Because he's a conspiracy theorist," Erik replied, fondly. "The bank had to shut down his debit card a few months ago because someone in New Jersey was using it to by lipstick. They didn't clear the transaction, but he was paranoid about it for weeks after he got the new card, he wouldn't put _anything_ on it, wouldn't use the ATM - then he got lazy and realized being a cash-only vigilante was impractical."

"He's so weird," Darren shook his head. Then, realizing how that might come across, was quick to add, "I mean, he's great! Super nice! But weird. Not in a bad way! We're all weird about some stuff, right?"

Luckily Mia was back with the drinks and an expression of consternation on her face, allowing them to gracefully change the subject.

"I owe you five bucks," she grumbled as she handed Darren...well. Erik wasn't quite sure what she was handing Darren. Or any of them. All of their drinks, even his beer and Mia's wine, were served in plastic cups with bright red lids. "Adult sippy cups. So we don't spill on their nice clean floors. It's like I said, no _soul_."

"I didn't realize you needed a gross floor to have soul," Erik observed; though he had to admit, the sippy cup was a bit much.

"You don't have to," Mia clarified. "But it helps."

The performance space was different too; there was a new lighting system and a real tech booth in the back of the room, albeit a small one. Kind of an improvement over the old system of a guy in the corner flicking a series of light switches to change the lights. One thing hadn't changed: there were no fixed rows of seats, just folding chairs. These were nice folding chairs with cushions, but still folding chairs.

They picked seats in a dark corner of the room, Erik on the outside near the aisle, Mia on his left and Darren beside her. Darren was looking at Erik nervously.

"Hey, dude, I didn't mean - I don't want you to think I don't like Dalir, I do! He's great! Just..."

"Not your type?" Erik supplied, tentatively taking a sip of his beer. At least the sippy-cup spout meant his first sip wasn't all head. 

"In that I'm a Tragic Heterosexual," Darren replied, tentatively trying for humor, "no, he's not. He has _great_ hair though. Truly epic coiffure."

"When do I get to meet him?" Mia asked, and the look in her eyes was very different from Darren's. There was a definite undercurrent of challenge. Which struck Erik as being kind of unfair, since between her moving back into town and Dalir moving out of town, it wasn't like they had a lot of time to arrange a meet-and-greet. 

"When he gets back, probably," Erik said. "You could come over or we could go somewhere or - "

And the awkward conversation was rescued by the pre-show soundtrack kicking in. The dulcet strains of Kurt Cobain rang throughout the room and Darren Wong grinned ear to ear.

"Oh, I am so stoked for this - hey! Are those guys wearing t-shirts?"

Two men who appeared to be a couple were both, in fact, wearing _Cruel Intentions_ t-shirts. As more audience members filtered in, Erik was conscious of the fact that there seemed to be a Rocky Horror vibe among them, with a few groups that came dressed like the characters in the movie, right down to Rosary-beads-as-necklaces, and some people just wearing their best '90s drag. It was kind of hilarious and the energy in the room picked up, with many rising to get a second sippy cup full of booze before the show started and practically everyone singing along to the pre-show soundtack before the house lights went down and the pre-show announcements about the location of fire exits, the duration of the performance, and expressly forbidding recordings of the show. Then a canned instrumental recording of 'Bittersweet Symphony' started playing over the speakers.

The performance itself was...well, it was a jukebox musical based on an overblown teen melodrama. The already ridiculous plot was condensed to the point of being nonsensical, the songs came out of nowhere, and it looked like it had been choreographed by a tween dance troupe.

And Erik loved every minute of it. 

A lot of factors went into a great show, to the point where sometimes the source material didn't matter. The audience knew exactly what they were getting into and the actors were hammy, as befitted the show. It wasn't that they weren't trying, they executed the simple dance steps precisely and they mostly had decent voices, but they played out to the audience, especially when folks who were three or more sippy cups in started expressing themselves more and more loudly as the show went on. It wasn't highbrow culture, the songs only barely fitted into the narrative, but it didn't matter; everyone was having fun. Erik got his second sippy cup during the intermission and by the curtain call, he too was giving the performers a standing ovation, singing along to 'Bye, Bye, Bye'.

As the house lights came up, the three of them roundly praised the show, waiting for the first rush of people out the door to pass before they tried to leave. 

"Best twenty-five dollars I've ever spent!" Erik declared triumphantly.

"Oh my God," Mia sighed in ecstasy. "Like. I had expectations for this show coming in. Not great ones. They blew them all out of the water, this was _amazing_."

"I can't believe that was only one night," Darren lamented. "I would happily watch that show every day for the rest of my life."

"It cured my depression, cleared my skin, and detached my earlobes," Mia proclaimed. "It was just. That. Good."

"Aww," Erik crooned, giving one of her very attached earlobes a tug. "Your earlobes are adorable - "

"Ohmygawd, _hiiiiiii_!"

A familiar-but-not voice that Erik had definitely heard before, but couldn't place sounded from behind him. He turned around and found himself looking up into the startlingly close face of Zac Estrella (who, as Erik suspected, taller than him). He was wearing glasses, a new addition he hadn't had at auditions and behind the lenses Erik was little startled to see that his eyes were two very different colors - one light brown, the other an equally light shade of blue. Up close, he also saw that the show's dermatological magic had not been worked on him; his face was cratered and pockmarked in a way consisted with cystic acne (Erik had long and detailed knowledge of various skin woes). Being close to him didn't mean that Erik could see him better; he could also smell him. Zac must have worked his way through a lot of _sippy_ cups and he hoped Vicious Cabaret banned smoking after the reno; the fumes off of Zac's breath could probably fuel another fire.

A little startled at being thrust into the conversational spotlight, Erik didn't regroup quickly enough to offer a perfunctory, 'hi.' No matter, Zac didn't wait for a response before he barreled the conversation along, "It's great to know I'll be working with people of taste. How fabulous was that?"

"Fabulous," Mia replied, then nudged Erik in the small of his back. "Introduce me to your friend."

"Um..." Erik started, brilliantly. He _really_ should have eaten something before he left the house. "Uh, actually he's more...a coworker. For both of us. Sorry, Darren Wong, all of us."

"Fortuitous circumstances indeed," Zac said, giving an exaggerated bow. "I'm Zac, I'm playing Dolokhov in _Great Comet_ , it's nice to meet you..."

"Mia!" Mia declared, half shoving Erik to one side so she could present Zac with her hand. He didn't shake it, he kissed it, which she seemed to find charming, but Erik just found weird. "I'm playing Sonya."

"Love the bangs," he said. Mia hadn't had bangs since high school since they were a pain in the ass to pin them up under a wig cap, but she'd gotten a haircut since returning to the States and decided she missed them. "Adorbs."

"Thank you," she said. Then paused, feeling like she should return compliment for compliment, and coming up short on physical attribute she could praise that wouldn't be a lie. "I love your voice."

Zac grinned his too-wide creepy grin. "Thanks."

Darren extended a hand to shake as well - and Zac gave him the exact treatment he gave Mia, kissing the back of his hand like he was some kind of 19th century dandy. "I'm Darren, my friends call me Darren Wong, I'm in the pit."

"Oh, cool!" Zac enthused, sounding like he meant it (but he was also obviously drunk, so Erik was finding his enthusiasm really discomfiting). "What instrument do you play?"

"Violin," Darren replied and Zac gushed _wow_ , wasn't that _great_ , he played violin _too_ , only, like, as a hobby. 

"Darren Wong used to be with the London Phil," Erik interjected.

Zac stared at him, bringing one spindly hand to the side of his head, miming and explosion. "Whoa! Mind blown, what the fuck are you doing here in the sticks?"

 _This is not the sticks!_ Erik thought, but bit his tongue to keep himself from getting really defensive with a guy who was kinda-sorta his employee (though, privately, if he saw future coworkers out and about town while he was shitfaced, he'd make a point _not_ to talk to them).

"Eh, it wasn't doing it for me," Darren explained with a shrug. 

"Cool, cool," Zac nodded, curls bouncing wildly about his head as he did. "Follow your bliss and everything. I'm meeting my boyfriend at a club, you guys want to come with? Or turn in early?"

Early? Erik discreetly looked at the time on his phone. 10:15. How was that early, on a worknight?

"Can't, sorry," Erik not-apologized. "We've got to be at the theatre in the morning."

 _So do you_ , was the unspoken implication, which, Zac not being psychic, he didn't actually hear. 

"Nice!" he said, punctuating the word with a fist-pump. "Well, good to get the intros partially started a day early! See you - well, two of you - at the read-through! G'night!"

And then he sauntered out, head held high, like that wasn't the most awkward exchange in the world. 

Mia stared after him for a beat after he left. "Do we think he's going to show up in the morning?"

"I have absolutely no idea," Erik shook his head. "That was weird, right? I'm not the only one who thinks that was weird?"

"Eh, he seems fun," Darren said - and, _really_? Dalir was weird for getting paranoid about credit card fraud, but _Zac_ was fun?

"You hired him," Mia reminded Erik sweetly, lacing her arm around his again. It was the right arm this time, so Erik wasn't as compelled to shake her off. "What did Gerry say? I'm assuming he put up a fight."

She assumed right. Though Neal and Erik formed a united front on that point, Dad had never actually approved of Zac's casting in the show; he was just outvoted. Erik should have known that siding with Neal was going to come back and bite him in the ass. 

The performance space was quiet now. They were the only ones left. Darren let out a pointed yawn and looked at his phone. 

"It's late o'clock," he observed correctly, then frowned to himself. "And that guy's hitting the club. When did we get so old?"

"Well, I'm up for a few more hours," Erik said as they made their way back to the car. "I've got to finish up making notes on the score."

Mia shook her head, "Don't worry, that was the whole point!"

"What was?"

She gestured back at Vicious Cabaret. "That, you know. At least we've got decent material. You'll be fine. We'll be fine. It's all going to be _fine_."

If she was trying to reassure him, her voice was all wrong. Mia sounded downright determined. _Everything's **fine** , we'll all be **fine** , we few, we happy few, we band of brothers!_

When they dropped Erik off at his apartment, he held the passenger side door open for Mia as she switched from the front to the back. She hesitated before she got in the car, impulsively wrapping him in a tight hug. 

"Go to bed," she advised. Then grinned wickedly up at him. "Besides, we won't start on time anyway. Especially if everyone's wondering where the hell Jack Skellington is tomorrow morning."

"You have a point," Erik observed and he kissed the top of her head. "'Night, Mia. Get some sleep."

"You first!" she said, then got in the car, waving at him as he let himself into the building. 

It being almost eleven o'clock on a worknight, the entryway and elevator were quiet. Erik let himself into the condo and flipped the kitchen light on. Quiet.

Dalir had texted him a few times over the course of the night, nothing too urgent, but Erik still wanted to get back to him before he went to bed.  **Sorry I've been MIA, I went to see a show with DW and Mia.**

The response came almost instantly.  **Totally fine, I've been busy with family stuff. What'd you see?**

**Cruel Intentions: The Musical.**

As Erik brushed his teeth and put his pajamas on, the reply came through. **Seriously?**

He replied truthfully: **IT WAS AMAZING.**

The phone buzzed as Erik plugged it into charge. **You are so weird. But I love you anyway.**

 **Love you too** , he sent one last text before he took Mia's advice and went to bed.

After things with Alexis ended (was it right to say a person 'broke up' with you when they ghosted after you OD'ed on drugs they procured?), Erik quickly got used to sleeping alone again. It wasn't even much of a transition, they'd only spent the night together a handful of times. But with Dalir gone the bed felt empty and cold in a way it never had before. That was one reason why he figured he'd be up late; Dalir was the best cure for his insomnia. 

But since Mia asked, he'd try. Erik took the mask off and lay it on the bedside table. For a while, he just lay in the dark, as 'Bittersweet Symphony' played on a loop in his head. Then, feeling like he was being a little gross, he took Dalir's pillow, which he hadn't washed since he went back to Michigan and hugged it close like the adult version of a teddy bear. He could practically hear Dalir's last text in his own words.

**_You are so weird. But I love you anyway._ **

Maybe he was going into tomorrow unprepared. Maybe one of their cast members was going to beg off because of a hangover. But Dalir loved him and that sort of made everything okay. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another long chapter of my vanity project!

It would be an exaggeration to say that the read-through was a disaster. Even Erik's tendency to catastrophize knew that was a bridge too far. But the read-through couldn't have been classified as 'good'. Not by any stretch of imagination.

It all started when Erik strolled into the PAC, bleary-eyed from tossing and turning in a Dalir-less bed all night. He had his music in a messenger bag over his shoulder and a large iced coffee sweating into the palm of his right hand. The sweating turned into a full on waterfall when he stepped from the muggy outside into the sweltering inside of the theatre.

"Oh, dear God, why?" he asked, looking from Jean Claude in the box office, resplendent in a tank top and board shorts, and Stace standing over the copier looking like she wanted to murder it. 

"The HVAC system needs a complete overhaul," Jean-Claude said, wiping at the top of his head with a pocket handkerchief. Even his scalp was sweating. "Your dad's been on the phone with the contractors all day."

Stace pointed in the direction of a thermometer stuck up on the wall over the copy machine. The mercury was hovering around eighty. "If the temperature goes about eighty-six, we're legally required to let everyone leave. Which is _fine_ because our leading man is a no-show."

It turned out, Neal's friend Marshall who had been hired for Pierre, sight unseen based purely on director recommendation, was staying in the Catskills for at least one more week before he could join rehearsals. 

"Okay, so he couldn't come and audition, and now he's not here for the read-through," Erik pointed out unnecessarily, irritation rising as he felt humidity building up behind the mask. "Are we sure he actually _exists_?"

Stace threw her hands up and shook her head, "Take it up with Neal, I'm making copies of the script one page at a fucking time because this thing keeps jamming. Actually, no, don't take it up with Neal, find your dad, will you? I haven't heard back from one of the new recruits about his social, I thought a call from the boss man might make a difference."

Erik agreed that he'd go on the hunt for his father, but first asked which new recruit she needed to hear about.

"That tall guy, Isaac Estrella," she said. "He's the only one who hasn't filled out the info for his W-2." 

Zac Estrella. Figured. 

Erik dropped his stuff in the rehearsal room on the piano bench and went off in search of Gerry. He found him where he expected to - at his desk, head in his hands as he cradled the receiver of his office phone between his shoulder and ear. Typical first day despair. 

"That's...well, we're pulling for her," he said, in a soft and consoling tone of voice usually reserved for hospital bedsides and not haggling with the HVAC guys. "We wish them all the best - yep, we'll keep them both in our prayers, you got it. Anything we can do? Food or - okay, well, let me know. Okay. Yep. Of course, I'll let you go, thanks for calling. Hang in there. 'Bye."

Gerry hung the phone up with a soft click, then let out a very loud sigh. Apparently he realized Erik was there without looking up for he didn't raise his head before he said, "Jackie had the baby." 

"Oh, that's good - wait! No, that's terrible, is the baby okay?" Erik asked, taken aback. Jackie was a dance teacher who worked for a local studio, not a PAC employee but she was their go-to choreographer whenever the PAC put on a musical. She was supposed to start her maternity leave a week or two into Great Comet's run. A run that was't supposed to start for another six weeks. _Shit._

"As good as a thirty-two week preemie can be," Gerry said grimly. "The baby - Olivia - weighs four pounds. She'll probably be fine, they think, but obviously Jackie and her husband are terrified. We'll send a card and pass the hat, I figured either for a house cleaning service or a gift card for meal delivery." 

Erik was nodding along, sleep-deprived brain sluggishly churning along the route from 'premature birth' to 'we have no choreographer and dance rehearsals are supposed to start this week.' 

"I take it you haven't had time to call about the HVAC system," Erik ventured, figuring he might as well have a complete picture of how miserable the day was going to be before it properly got started. Maybe the cast wouldn't realize the music director hadn't finished his notations in the midst of the heat, the medical emergencies, and the no-shows.

"Busy signal," Gerry replied, looking up at last. "I'll try again in an hour. If the temperature in the rehearsal room goes over eighty-six - "

"Evacuate, yes, Stace told me," Erik interrupted him. "And you know Neal's friend isn't coming."

Gerry closed his eyes and shook his head. "I didn't know that, I didn't need to know that, don't tell me that. Is that why you came up here? To ask about the A/C?"

"And about Zac Estrella's W-2," Erik shrugged. "Little fires and everything."

His father waved a hand around, like he was fanning the flames. "I'll talk to him later today - in the grand scheme of things, his paycheck is the least of my concerns. God _damn_ it, it is hot."

The if the first floor was sticky and humid, the second floor where his father's office was located, was a furnace. Erik could feel the back of his shirt sticking to his skin and he wished he'd packed a change of clothes before he left the house. Too late now. 

"Any other bad news for me?" Gerry asked. Erik shook his head. "Okay. Well, something's bound to come up - I still need to text Neal about Jackie. Oh. Um. Happy...anniversary."

Anniversary?

"Uh...thanks?" Erik asked, a slightly question-mark in his voice since he had no idea what his dad was referring too. The first thing he thought was that it has a happy six-monthish anniversary for him and Dalir, but that seemed unlikely. In the first place 'six months-ish' was not an actual date worth celebrating by the world at large and in the second, it was not the kind of thing his father would acknowledge, ever.

But Dad was already texting on his phone (slowly, in his old man way) so Erik decided not to question it. He was halfway down the stairs back to the lobby when it hit him.

Happy Anniversary. It had been a year since he went to rehab. One year of sobriety. _Shit._

Erik glanced back up the stairs toward his dad's office, heart stuttering in his chest. He hadn't gone to the meeting at the Methodist Church that week, too busy with work stuff to make it, so he hadn't gotten his one year chip. He'd forgotten all about it. But clearly his father hadn't. 

For a second, he contemplated turning around, running back up, blathering at him with some kind of half-cocked speech about how much he owed his father, thank him for setting him up with rehab while he was in the hospital...something. But he didn't. It would just be embarrassing for the two of them, especially since they were both on the clock at the theatre. Maybe Erik would do something to thank his father later. Schedule a movie night at his dad's place and bring over a...cake. Or something. A 'thanks for not disowning me' cake. That was something a local bakery wouldn't object to icing on the top, right?

Briefly, Erik paused on the stairwell to remove his mask and wipe his face on his sleeve before he made his way back into the lobby. Looking down at the liner, once white, now a permanent parchment-yellow, he made a mental note to make time to change it out before it got too groady and started to smell. Replacing the mask, he took a deep, steadying breath before he went out to face his coworkers. Happy Anniversary. _Nope, not now. Don't think about that now._

To Erik's immense surprise, the last person in the world he expected to see was lingering in the deserted lobby. Zac Estrella. Present and on time - better than on time, rehearsal wasn't due to start for another hour hour. 

"Hey!" he said brightly as Erik appeared. "What's up? Excited to get going?"

At first, Erik assumed he was trying to hide the bloodshot eyes that bespoke a late night behind dark glasses, but the lenses went from black to clear as Zac stood there; transitions. His blue and yellow eyes were clear and his voice was cheerful and upbeat. Erik decided then and there that he hated Zac, just a little. 

"Um...sure," Erik replied, not even a little cheerfully. "Do you have your social? The office needs it for your W-2."

It turned out he did not have his social security card; it lived in a little tin box in his parents' apartment in the Bronx. But his mother said she'd go to the library and fax a copy to the theatre that afternoon. 

"Okay, great," Erik said, not turning his back on Zac exactly, but definitely shifting his weight purposefully to attempt to make a graceful exit from the conversation so he could have a few minutes alone to gather himself before rehearsal. "Well, let Stace or the office manager Maureen know - "

"I did!" Zac said, just as chipper and _loud_ as ever. _I haven't had enough coffee for this._ "Where's the rehearsal room? _Please_ tell me it has air conditioning."

"It's, uh, that way," Erik gestured vaguely in the direction of the rehearsal space. "It doesn't - the whole place is like this, you can wait outside if you want, try to catch a breeze - "

"Nah, I'm good," Zac said. Then he started singing the Piragua Guy song from _In the Heights_. At full volume. And although Zac had one of the most beautiful voices Erik had ever heard, even a beautiful voice was unwelcome if all the hearer wanted was a few minutes of quiet.

If Erik thought this was his opportunity to leave the conversation, he was mistaken. No sooner did he start for the rehearsal room than Zac trailed after him. Still singing. 

_This is fine_ , Erik told himself, gritting his back teeth as his fingers twitched in nervous irritation as he was followed into the room. _This is_ fine _. He's just enthusiastic. Enthusiasm is good. You're just tired._

Stace had placed copies of the sheet music and librettos on the tables, neatly lined up in a large square pattern, but Neal still wasn't there. Punctuality wasn't his strong suit, but Erik was hoping he'd make an effort for the first day of rehearsal - he didn't anticipate they'd be doing much with the music, but he wanted to carve out some time to listen to the cast sing a bit so he had a clearer idea of what he was working with. He'd already scheduled individual sessions with Charlotte because he knew she needed extra coaching. Wendy had her own voice teacher, and Luke would probably be fine working on his vocals during music rehearsals. Music was the one thing he wasn't worried about with regards to Zac, and as for Mia and Christine...

_Christine._ If Erik hadn't been sweating from the heat, he would have broken out into a sweat when he thought of Christine. It would be the first time they were close - actually, really close, actually having a conversation, interacting in person in over a year. A whole year. Happy Anniversary...

_If she wasn't comfortable being around you, she wouldn't have auditioned_ , the voice of his therapist broke into his rapidly spiraling thoughts. _If she had second thoughts, she wouldn't have taken the role. It could be she's comfortable interacting with you professionally. Let her take the lead in this._

His stomach had started to ache with nerves and he found he couldn't drink the coffee he'd been longing for back in the lobby. Erik tried really hard not to think about that night, a year ago. The night he and Christine fought. Then he and Alexis fought. _Then_ he opened that little white bag of powder and-

Zac brought him out of his miserable reverie with a pointed question. "So. The mask? Is it, like...medical? Just curious, you don't have to tell me, but it's kind of. You know. Noticeable."

Erik consciously relaxed his jaw so he didn't crack his molars. Sitting in a puddle of its own condensation, his coffee very slowly started to glide across the top of the upright piano where he'd placed it after dropping off his stuff. The ice was totally melted, dividing it into unappealing layers of coffee, milk, and water. 

"It's medical," he lied easily, then gestured toward his stuff on the piano. "I'm just going to get set up here."

"Oh, okay," Zac nodded, retreating toward the tables, laden with scripts. "Gotcha. Cool. I'll just be over here." 

Erik didn't say anything. Instead he moved his bag to the floor and set up the music for the Prologue, just to play his way through and calm his nerves. As he played, he wondered about what to do with the integration of the band and the instrument-playing members of the cast, whether there was room in the schedule to bring the two groups together sooner than he'd planned to. It was still to early to know who had lied on their CVs, he should have brought some of his own instruments for the cast to play on, just to see where they were at. He wondered where they could find an accordion for Marshall - he wondered when Marshall was going to show up. 

As he worked out his nerves on the piano, his mind started to wander and so did his hands, adding little flourishes and riffs here and there, just to keep himself from getting bored. Erik remembered he was supposed to read _War and Peace_ for senior year English class, but he hadn't gotten very far - he remembered a scene where someone tied a policeman to a bear, but then the book got into the military scenes and he'd quickly lost interest.  He was familiar with Russian composers, just not Russian literature. He'd done a paper in undergrad about Shostakovich and artistic censorship. That paper got an A minus - not that the research he'd done over ten years ago (one year of sobriety, ten years since he'd graduated college, he was so _old_ and he'd _wasted_ so much time) was likely to help him much here.

It was hot and clammy under the mask; that was what made him stop playing, the knowledge that he should get up, clean himself off before everyone got in for the read-through -

Applause.

Erik blinked and looked up from the piano. He'd been so busy playing and panic-spiraling that he hadn't noticed the room filling with people, faces he was familiar with and those he was not. They must have stopped talking when they heard the music. Neal was giving him a polite golf-clap. Zac whistled.

Heat rose up the back of his neck - not a result of the borderline illegal temperature of the rehearsal room. Erik glanced over at the thermometer by the door; eighty-four degrees.

"Okay, so that's _Erik_ ," Neal said, gesturing toward him with an impatient flourish of his hand. "Our musical director - _obviously_. Do you want them to sing now or later?"

"Uh..." So much for looking put-together and professional. His shirt was soaking wet, his neck and hands were bright red and since Neal had been the one to ask the question about the way they were running rehearsal,  _Erik_ looked like the one who was under-prepared. What a nightmare. 

Luckily, Stace came to his rescue. 

"We're going to do the read-through in the courtyard," she said, referring to a little plot of shaded grass between the Sad Addition and the original building that housed a picnic table, it was a popular lunching area for the building staff in warmer weather. "But we can't drag the piano out there, so we figured we could send people in one at a time for you to work with. You don't need to stay the whole time that way."

Likely she was just trying to be considerate, but Erik couldn't help wondering if they just wanted to limit the cast's exposure to his off-putting self. _Probably not_ , the reasonable part of his brain tried in vain to tell him. _If anyone was really weirded out by you, they wouldn't agree to be alone with you period._

"That's...fine," Erik said because, really, what _else_ could he say? Clearing his throat he asked, "Do you want to do the whole script, or - "

"We'll take it in chunks," Neal interrupted him, and Erik noticed he had a huge hardback copy of _War and Peace_ , complete with annotations, under his arm. "Since there's so much singing, it's like, what's the point, you know? Today is really about _character_ and _relationships_."

There was a gleam in his eye, slightly manic and Erik was reminded that the show was based on Neal's favorite book. Maybe it really was a blessing to get out early; the rest of the cast might be there all night listening to him wax poetic about Russian literature. 

"Sure, I guess, depending on what scenes you wanted to look at first, you can send people in when you don't need them," Erik suggested. Neal nodded, informing the cast that he'd like to go through 'Welcome to Moscow' first. Mia caught Erik's eye and wrinkled her nose; clearly she was hoping to be the first one in. Instead the actors playing Old Bolkonsky and Mary opted to stay behind while the rest of the cast enjoyed shade and the occasional breeze, rather than the close discomfort of the windowless rehearsal room. 

They were both PAC actors Erik knew. Jason was around Erik's father's age and had been acting locally longer than Erik had been alive; he played no instruments, but he was doubling Old Bolkonsky and Balaga, which promised to be a lot of fun. Vanessa premiered with the house company them four seasons ago as Laura in _The Glass Menagerie_ and usually averaged one or two shows a year with Neal. She played the guitar and went on as one of the Kit Kat Klub girls in _Cabaret_ , so Erik already knew how she worked. They did a little bit of music work, but mostly talked about Jackie and the baby. It was the same with Wendy, the show's Marya; he knew he could trust her to deliver vocally and so they mostly talked about the show in general before he sent her back out to join the cast.

Charlotte breezed in and sang nothing, just set up her additional one-on-one coaching sessions with Erik and left again; she refused to stay in the rehearsal space a second longer than she said to; she claimed the oppressive heat in the building was messing with her asthma.

Erik saw Luke, their Andrei, very briefly; he too sang a bit, but mostly angsted about the fact that Marshall wasn't there. "I just feel like, in the context of this show - I'm reading the book and getting this vibe too - that Andrei's primary relationship isn't with _Natasha_ , it's with _Pierre_ , you know? And so, to not have him here...I don't know, I feel like the relationship is going to suffer, you know? Like, if I don't establish a rapport with the actor."

Trying to be sympathetic, Erik nodded and said something about how Andrei's kind of distanced from the cast throughout the show, so maybe use the distance he was experiencing now to help (honestly, he was just bullshitting him, but Luke stared at him like Erik had just given him the secret to life and thanked him profusely on his way out the door for the advice). By this point the mask was so uncomfortable, Erik thought about calling it quits for the afternoon, until Luke let Christine in as he was going out.

"Hi," she said, smiling at him with an expression he couldn't quite read - she looked kind of relieved. Erik sat stock still on the piano bench and she approached him, stopping about six inches away. Tentatively she raised her arms. "Hug?"

"I'm disgusting," Erik replied before he could stop himself. Then, off her stunned expression added, "I mean...I'm _really_ sweaty, so you probably don't want to - " 

"Oh, me too," Christine said quickly, the smile coming back. "I think everyone is. Um. But, like, if you're not comfortable - "

"No, no, I am," Erik said, even though he just about the most _un_ comfortable he had ever been. "Just, if _you're_ not comfortable..."

They probably would have been like that forever, Christine standing and leaning toward him, Erik stiff as a board on the bench, trying to keep himself from leaning away from her, if she hadn't taken initiative and closed the gap. Even with him sitting, they were more or less on a level and she leaned her chin down to rest against his shoulder - his left shoulder. He didn't know if she was being conscientious or if it was just coincidence. Erik wrapped one arm loosely around her back, but Christine grabbed on with force, hugging him firmly.

Throat tight, Erik started to apologize, "I'm sorry for - "

"Mmm-mmm," she made a negative sound in her throat and shook her head. This time she didn't meet his eyes. "Let's not...nope. Let's _not_. I'm happy to see you. Really happy to see you! Oh! And I told Neal that Meg could probably step in as choreographer! Remember Meg, my friend from grad school? The dancer? You guys met, right?"

Mutely, Erik nodded, unsure how to feel. So, she wasn't going to let him apologize. Because she thought he didn't need to? Or because she wasn't ready to forgive him yet?

As she chattered about the potential of Meg taking over for Jackie, Erik recalled steps 8 and 9 of the typical recovery plan: Making Amends. Take stock of the damage you caused. Express the desire to repair it. Admit to your mistakes. Find a way to repair the damage. Be patient about getting someone's trust back.

He didn't know how to repair the damage, let alone get anyone's trust back. Thinking back to one year ago, he remembered the first thing his dad said to him in the hospital. _"I trusted you. I guess that was a big fucking mistake."_

A mistake, yes, absolutely. Gerry knew his history. Had chosen to trust him in the wake of his first stint in rehab in high school. Big mistake. Christine, though, she hadn't known. He hadn't told her. How could she have known she was putting her trust in a liar?

"So," she said when she reached the end of her monologue about Meg and dancing. "Should we...sing?"

Not trusting himself to speak, knowing it would just be more anxious apologies, which she didn't want to hear, Erik just nodded again and slowly played the intro for 'No One Else.'

Immediately, it was clear to him that she hadn't been working her upper register as diligently as he would have liked. The average person on the street would have thought she sounded fine, but he knew her voice incredibly well and the high notes sounded thin and unsupported to his ear. Christine knew that too; her large brown eyes flickered up toward him during the bridge and when the song was concluded, she bit her lip in contrition.

"I know it needs work," she admitted, then smiled again. "But that's what you're here for! Erik the miracle worker."

His lips twitched up in a shallow approximation of a smile. "We can work on it - I'll...look at the rehearsal schedule. We can carve out some time, if you'd like to come in a little early or stay a little late some nights."

She looked a little surprised. "Here, you mean?"

"...yes," he replied, confused. Did she think he was going to ask her over to his place? After what happened? He'd assumed she'd never want to think about stepping foot in there ever again.

"Oh," Christine replied, followed by a long pause where she seemed to expect him to say something. Erik stayed quiet. "Okay. Sure. That's fine."

"Okay," he said.

"Okay," she repeated. "I'll just...head back out. Thanks and - um. It really is good to see you."

"...you too," Erik said quietly. Christine nibbled at her lip again, then turned and went back outside, leaving him with a hollow feeling in his chest; he was sure he'd disappointed her, but he didn't understand why. 

Mia came next and he was finally able to be honest that he needed a break and he scurried off to the bathroom to clean himself up as best he could before returning to run through 'Sonya Alone.' Her voice was fine, but the performance was flat - not unusual for a first day, when she was still learning the music. Anyway, the acting part was Neal's responsibility to work with. She expressed her astonishment that Zac showed up for rehearsal and Erik took the opportunity to vent his frustration that he had gone to bed at a respectable 11PM and felt like hell, while Zac had probably been out until the wee hours and turned up early and fresh as a daisy.

"You didn't sleep?" Mia asked sympathetically. "When's your man coming back?"

"Tonight, but late," Erik sighed. "I'll probably be asleep when he gets in. Speaking of men, how's Dante - "

"Gotta go!" Mia said, making a big show of looking at her wrist, like she was checking the time. She wasn't actually wearing a watch, but Erik didn't mention that as she scurried back outside.

Raul Chavez, who had been given the role of Anatole, radiated nervousness in addition to obvious good-looks when he came in. At first, Erik thought it was due to his discomfort working with a masked man and he was about to launch into a long, tedious explanation that the mask was medical and covered a childhood injury, but Raul blurted out the reason for his nerves almost immediately.

"I'm so sorry, I'm totally...I have no idea, I thought we...um, I'm sorry," he apologized twice without finishing a sentence. He held the sheet music out in a shaking hand. "I don't know this."

"That's okay," Erik replied automatically. "It's just the read-through, we can go through however much of the song makes sense and - "

"No, I don't..." Raul took a deep breath and addressed his remarks to the ceiling. "I'm so sorry, this is...I just thought I'd be in the chorus, I didn't...um. I've never had a...big part before. I've just done college shows. And only in the ensemble."

"That's okay," Erik repeated, reassuringly. It was actually nice to have someone acting as anxious as he felt; took his mind off his own fears. Raul looked like he was seconds away from bursting into tears. "Is it the C#? Because Dave Molloy kind of write that in as a joke, we can't all be Lucas Steele, we can easily transpose it down and - "

"No, that's the thing," Raul cut in again, right foot tapping nervously against the floor. "That's what I'm trying to tell you. I don't...C#, I don't...read music. I don't know _anything_ about music. I just...learn my part with the rest of the chorus. I was listening to the soundtrack on the way here and I...I'm _so_ sorry. I feel like I'm wasting your time and money, but I need a job. And..."

Raul's chin was actively wibbling. Like, dimpled and trembling. Alarmed, Erik reached out and patted his left arm extremely awkwardly. 

"That's fine, we can...work with that," Erik said, silently reorganizing his mental calendar to include a lot more one-on-one time with the cast than he initially thought he'd need. It was fine. It would be fine. He wasn't sleeping well anyway, might as well use his tossing and turning time to be productive. "Lots of professional singers don't read music."

Which was more or less true. Lots of professional singers weren't the greatest sight readers and plenty of them didn't study music beyond voice. But after only a few bars, it became painfully obvious to Erik that it wasn't just that Raul wasn't comfortable sight reading - he was going to have to learn the whole part by ear. Which would be okay, but for the fact that Erik didn't have Lucas Steele's range either. 

Raul wound up taking the most time of anyone and Erik spent most of their one-on-one trying to figure out how finely tuned Raul's sense of pitch was. The answer? Not very. 

"Okay," Erik said, keeping his voice calm and his tone light (years of vocal training came in handy sometimes). "Do you hear the difference between these two notes?"

Raul nodded, but when asked to sing them back, was unable to produce a differentiation in sound. Erik was about to try again when there was a knock from the doorway. Zac hand one hand hooked into the top of the doorjamb and was leaning through. 

"Sorry, but I'm the last one up," he said, grinning his lopsided grin. "It's officially too hot outside to hold anyone here, but since my mom hasn't faxed my social, I'm not officially on the payroll yet, so you know, whip me, beat me, all that. You can head home, Raul. It's an Equity theatre!"

A look of panic overtook Raul's handsome face.

"I'm sorry," he apologized for the thirty-thousandth time. "Look, I...if there's nothing...if you have to let me go...I'm sorry - "

"Raul," Erik put a hand up to stop him talking and rubbed the brow of the mask with the other. "I have no problem working with you on this. We can schedule extra one-on-ones, that's totally fine. We have six weeks before we open, that's plenty of time to get you up to speed, I'll give you my cell and text you later. But you need to swear one thing to me before I let you leave."

"What's that?" Raul asked nervously.

"That you will never say, 'I'm sorry,' to me ever again," Erik replied seriously. 

For the first time since he'd entered the rehearsal space, Raul smiled. "Okay. Sor - um. Okay. _Thank_ you. I really appreciate it."

"He's a sweet kid," Zac observed after Raul left. "Can he sing?"

Erik hesitated - in the first place, it really wasn't Zac's place to be asking about other performers' talent. In the second, he didn't particularly like Zac. Still, in an effort to be polite, Erik replied, "He'll be fine. Did you actually want to rehearse or were you just coming to tell Raul to go home? I should talk to Neal about - "

"Neal already left," Zac informed him and Erik suppressed a groan. Of _course_ he had. Why had he expected anything else? "With Charlotte, I think her name is. The redhead. Are they a thing?"

Even though Erik didn't really like Zac or want to gossip with him, he nodded; it wasn't actually gossip if literally _everyone_ knew about it, was it?

"Cool," Zac took the information in stride. Squinting through his transitions lenses, he tapped the thermometer near the door. "You should head out too - it's eighty-eight in here, you could sue."

Erik rose and unpeeled himself from the piano bench, grimacing as an all too familiar twinge of pain shot down his right shoulder. He'd been sitting too long, hadn't done his PT before he left the house. He probably wasn't going to do it when he got home either; he was too hot, too tired, and too grumpy. He knew this was how it all started last year, letting things slip, letting the pain build until it got unbearable. But guilt wasn't going to be a decent enough motivator. Not when he was sitting in an almost ninety-degree rehearsal room for three hours, in a mask, long-sleeved shirt and jeans while everyone else got to relax in the shade and talk character. 

"No, I can't," Erik grumbled in irritation. "Equity rules and OSHA violations don't count with me."

Zac cocked his head and stared at him in a quizzical, yet piercing way. "So, you're...what, a masochist? A masked masochist?"

Ordinarily such a comment would have pissed Erik off, but the way Zac phrased it - playfully, clearly trying to be funny - blunted the edge of his irritation and he almost laughed despite himself. "Basically. My dad's the general manager, so..."

Zac smacked himself in the head dramatically - apparently he was incapable of doing anything without drama. "Oh! You know, I didn't see it before, but now I totally do! Okay, _yes_ , definitely. I'm just going to say this to you since I don't officially work here yet, but your dad - Gerry, right? - is not just a _snack_ , he is a five-course _meal_ \- " 

"Okay, thank you, gross," Erik replied with a visible shudder, any temporary amusement vanishing in the face of Zac's inappropriate compliments. Ugh. 

Grinning, Zac chuckled like they were sharing a joke. "Okay, I guess that's weird. It _is_ your dad, I mean, no one's ever said that about _my_ dad, but _my_ dad looks like Super Mario, so - " 

The tinny sound of a phone going off luckily cut this mortifying conversation short. Erik gathered his stuff as Zac answered and spoke to whoever was on the other line in Spanish. He picked out a few words here in there, 'biblioteca' and 'Mama' and 'pequeños.' He managed to gather that Zac's social security number was on its way.

The rest of the building was dark; Erik had a key and an alarm code, so they must have left him in charge of locking up - it would have been nice if someone _told_ him, but even checking his phone messages, no one had. The fax machine was located behind Maureen's desk on the second floor so Erik let Zac up with him as they waited to receive the fax. An awkward silence would have been welcome; Erik's head was pounding, a combination of not enough caffeine or real water, but Zac didn't seem capable of keeping quiet for any appreciable length of time. 

"So is this a full-time gig for you?" Zac asked. "If so, that is _sweet_."

Erik shook his head, but that just made his headache worse. "No, I don't usually work here much. I've...got my own stuff going on. This is more like a...favor."

'Like' a favor was the only way to put it. Actual favors usually involved the doer offering to perform an act of their own free will. Not being guilted into it on narrow restaurant staircases. 

"That's awesome," Zac enthused and Erik wished he'd just dial it back. Everything was 'cool' or 'awesome' or 'excellent' to him. Couldn't things just...be? "I mean, I'm sure you don't need me to tell you, you are a _fantastic_ pianist. Mia said you went to Julliard? You definitely got your money's worth."

"Thank you," Erik said quietly. The fax finally came through and he handed it to Zac without looking at it; he didn't want to be accused of trying to steal or memorize his number. "If you're more comfortable, just hold on to this, Maureen won't be back to process it until tomorrow morning. You can leave it on her desk if you don't want to come back early, but - "

Zac dropped the paper from his long, thin fingers and let it float onto the desk, image-side up. Apparently he wasn't worried about Erik stealing his number - but why would he be? It was easy, sometimes, for Erik to forget that he didn't have the word ADDICT printed on his forehead for all to see. He wondered if _that_ had come up, in addition to his alma mater. Surely there had been discussion of the mask, at least.

"Why didn't you stay in the city?" Zac asked him as Erik led the way back down to the lobby. "You know, after college. I'm sure you could have gotten hired as a rehearsal pianist or something."

Or something. Erik's patience was wearing thin; his head hurt, he was a horrible sweaty mess, and his shoulder was acting up. Absolutely the last thing he wanted to do was engage in small talk with Zac. Weird, chipper, upbeat Zac who looked like a Batman villain, sang like an angel, and never stopped _talking_.

"You're going to have to go outside so I can set the alarm," Erik said, the note of finality in his tone signifying that the conversation was over. "I'll see you tomorrow, maybe."

Zac's big-ass scarecrow grin faded for a second, but he roused himself gamely. "Okay! Great! See you tomorrow, Erik! Oh, hey, do you need a ride? My boyfriend is picking me up, we're getting a late lunch. Want to come with?"

"I'm good, thank you," Erik said firmly. 

Zac finally got the hint. He waved and started speed-dialing a number on his phone. "Hey, babe, we're done, come and get me! How was class?"

The side door shut behind him with an audible click. Erik let out a breath he felt like he'd been holding all day.

No, it wasn't a disaster, but neither was it _good_. He hadn't exactly embarrassed himself, but neither had he come off _well_. And now there was a long, hot walk back to his condo to look forward to. 

Erik's phone buzzed in his pocket. 

** At the airport, waiting for my flight. Be home by eight. Miss you. **

Smiling as he set the alarm, Erik reflected that it wasn't _just_ a long walk he had to look forward to. At least he'd have time for a shower and possibly a nap before Dalir got home.

** See you then. Miss you too. Have a good flight.  **

_ Buzz.  _ **How was rehearsal?**

Erik stared at his phone for a minute. Then put it back in his pocket, set the alarm, and started the walk home.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smooches.

A delayed flight and a dinner which consisted entirely of Cinnabon and two large coffees was not sitting well in Dalir's stomach as he Ubered home from the airport at 1AM. He'd gotten a $100 travel voucher out of it which he'd probably develop the emotional bandwith to be grateful for after his stomach settled down and he'd had a good night's sleep, which he hadn't enjoyed since his plane touched down in Detroit almost a week ago.

The mattress on his childhood bed probably needed to be replaced, he decided. It was by turns too hard, too soft, too hot, too cold, too small, and too big. It took him forever to drift off, then he'd wake up at least once in the middle of the night feeling like something was...off. 

He'd ask Erik where he got his mattress from (knowing him, probably delivered by a drone and dropped off on his front steps). Erik's mattress was basically perfect. Sleeping there (once Erik got over himself and allowed Dalir to spend the night in his room) was never uncomfortable.

As the Uber rounded the corner to park in front of the apartment complex, Dalir reflected that it might be nice to put the voucher toward a trip. For the two of them. They'd been seeing each other seriously for six months, it wasn't too early for a couples' trip, was it? 

 _He'll never go for it_ , a doubtful voice in the back of Dalir's mind butted in as he tipped the driver (in cash). _He hates flying. Getting both of you through TSA without a headache would be a miracle. He'll be a nervous wreck if you even bring it up. So don't._

It was too late and he was too tired and grumpy to argue with himself over opening up a potential argument with Erik, so Dalir tried to banish all thoughts of future plans that didn't involved brushing his teeth and then crawling into bed.

It was ungodly hot and muggy out, with no rain in the forecast. Despite the increase in their electric bills since summer hit, Dalir was grateful for Erik keeping the air going full-blast in his house. The relief rolled down his shoulders as the artificially cool air of the kitchen hit his face when he got in. _Home._

The television was on, casting the living room in flickering blue light, sound a low murmur. Dalir left his suitcase in front of the door and walked over to the living room intending to turn the TV off. A cartoon was playing - some Star Wars kids show on the Disney Channel, which Erik only ever watched when Dalir was out of the house.

He thought back to his first impression of Erik, almost a year ago. Given the way the apartment was set-up, decorated, the number of books he had, Dalir assumed Erik was some kind of intellectual sophisticate. He knew better now; the paintings on the walls were works his mother had done. The reason he didn't own a video game console was because he sucked at video games and they stressed him out. And most of the books he owned were either music theory, textbooks left over from college, leather-bound classics he picked up from Barnes and Noble for $8.00, or fantasy and sci-fi novels. His DVD collection consisted of three genres: Science Fiction, Horror, and Disney. 

Erik himself was conked out on the sofa; he'd changed for bed, but fell asleep watching TV. Dalir hoped he wasn't waiting up for him. 

He picked up the remote and turned off the television as an advertisement for an upcoming Star Wars theme park flashed across the screen. 

 _Maybe we could go to Disney World with the voucher_ , Dalir mused. _He loves Disney. And Star Wars. Belated thirtieth birthday present..._

Glancing down, he dismissed the idea as impractical. Erik would never. Flying aside, he'd be paranoid about scaring little kids. And the brutally honest part of Dalir's psyche couldn't blame him.

Erik wasn't wearing the mask, which Dalir was grateful for. Even without the benefit of the TV light he saw there were some blisters and rough-looking spots from the mask chafing. It was unbearable in the heat and Dalir knew from text conversations that the theatre's air-conditioning wasn't working. Frankly, if he was in that situation, Dalir would have called out. Sorry, not sorry, but it was cruel and unusual punishment for a guy who was constantly covered up, neck to ankles, to sit in an eighty-degree sweat lodge all day. But Erik wasn't like that. He'd just suffer in silence, which was bad enough, but dangerous for someone prone to self-medicating.

Dalir couldn't just turn-off the cop in him, the investigator, the sobriety watchdog. Erik skipped his last two NA meetings, citing work commitments. It wasn't exactly a red flag, but Dalir wanted to encourage him to make the next one. Just to keep on track. Just to stay healthy. Just in case. 

Sleeping on the sofa wasn't doing his bad shoulder any favors. Dalir took a second before he woke him up, just to look at him. Erik still wasn't completely comfortable going around without the mask on. Even when they were alone. Not unless the lights were low or off completely. And when Dalir looked at him, there was always a slight tension around his mouth, and his eyes would dart to where ever he'd left the mask behind. As though he was ready, every second, to be asked to put it back on.

He wasn't a sap. It's not like he was the kind of person who'd go all dewy-eyed and proclaim Erik was beautiful to _him_ (in the first place, Dalir wasn't exactly a flowery-language person), because, objectively, he wasn't. He looked like someone who'd gotten most of their face burned off and subsequently repaired. Dalir was used to it, more or less. It was just novel - nice, but novel - to see Erik looking this _relaxed_. Even if relaxation included drooling slightly onto a sofa cushion.

Dalir's fingers drifted down to brush against Erik's brow, against the scars which didn't have a lot of sensation until he got to his hairline and his scalp. Erik's eyelids fluttered and his slack jaw tightened. Blearily he blinked up at Dalir. 

"Hi," Dalir smiled down at him and was rewarded with a slow, answering smile from Erik. He had a really sweet smile; brightened up the whole package. "Miss me?"

"Yeah," Erik said, voice husky with sleep. He sat up and Dalir's smile faded when he saw him reach back automatically to massage his right shoulder. "How was everything when you got on the plane?"

"I don't know why they call it 'rough air,' do they think that'll freak people out less than 'turbulence'?" Dalir asked rhetorically. "But whatever, we had a lot of rough air. I didn't actually throw up, but I came close."

"Gross," Erik replied, limping toward the bedroom. He wasn't wearing shoes so his balance wasn't assisted by the inserts which made up for the loss of the amputated portion of his right foot. Still being sleepy made him clumsy and he almost tripped, but braced himself on the wall before Dalir could dart over to offer assistance. "Ready for bed? Or are you all hyped up?"

"Man, I'm basically asleep on my feet," Dalir groaned, making his way to the bathroom, once he was assured Erik could make his way into the bedroom without help. One of their first couple-fights involved Dalir's tendency to be a bit _too_ helpful. Erik had navigated the world as a single person in his own apartment for almost four years before Dalir showed up. He didn't need Dalir to be his _nurse_. He needed Dalir to be his _boyfriend_. Dalir heard him loud and clear and tried to be respectful, tried to be hands-off when it came to day to day stuff. Still. He was a details-guy. He noticed when Erik was struggling. And he was a helper. He couldn't suppress his impulse to lend a hand when he thought Erik could use one. But he could quell his reactions.

So, rather than offer a solicitous hand to escort Erik into the bed, he went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. No intervention was needed. Erik was curled up under the covers by the time Dalir was ready to get into bed himself. 

The temperature was cool and comfortable in the bedroom. Dalir felt a little groady from the plane, but didn't object when Erik cuddled closer, wrapping and arm around his waist, tucking Dalir's shoulder under his chin. God, Dalir was _so_ comfortable. Bliss.

"Where'd you get your mattress?" Dalir mumbled, already half-asleep. 

Erik told him - some fancy online delivery company, as he suspected. But Dalir wasn't going to remember in the morning. The name of the company, or that he'd asked about the mattress at all. He remembered the warm press of Erik's lips on his temple. Then he fell asleep. 

He woke to the sound of drawers being shoved open and mumbled swearing. 

Dalir didn't sit up, but he did open his bleary eyes enough to see that Erik had turned a table light on and was rooting through his bureau, dropping dark-colored t-shirts on the ground; there was a substantial pile at his feet. He was wearing jeans and Dalir could see the while ties of the mask strings around the back of his head, but he wasn't wearing a shirt. 

"It's too hot for clothes," Dalir muttered into the pillow. He closed his eyes. "Go naked."

"Ha," Erik replied humorlessly. "I'm riding my bike in today, so...no, thanks. I should have done laundry last night, I'm out of t-shirts."

Dalir opened his eyes again, glancing from the fallen shirts on the floor and the few that were hanging limply off the edge of the bed. "Is that some kind of trick question? Look, here's a t-shirt, wear this."

He snagged one at random off the edge of the bed. Erik held it up, glaring at him pointedly behind the eyeholes of the mask. The t-shirt was black and plain on one side. The front featured a picture of a jacked, shirtless man with a facial scar and the words 'BEN SWOLO' written over his head. Dalir was jerked totally out of slumber by laughing. "Dude, that's hilarious, why do you even own that?"

"My aunt bought it for me," Erik muttered, shoving the shirt back into a drawer. "I've literally never worn it."

Dalir's brow furrowed. "Your aunt with the religious daughter? Or the one you think is a lesbian?"

"Lesbian." 

"Weird." 

"Tell me about it," Erik muttered. With a sign he picked up white t-shirt. This one had a cartoon image of a Stormtrooper crouching and aiming its gun, which shot a little flag that said 'Pew! Pew!' on it. "I mean, I'll be sitting. At the piano. So I'll be kind of blocked from view."

"You should totally wear it," Dalir encouraged him. "It's cute. Shows some personality."

Erik pulled it on, frowning as it suctioned itself to his stomach and upper arms. Dalir wasn't about to complain. Despite the silly picture on his chest, he looked pretty hot. 

"Still no A/C?" he asked, frowning. "Hasn't it been a week?"

"Yep," Erik replied shortly, picking up the mess of shirts and dumping them into the bureau. It didn't quite close when he shut it, but he turned away as though giving up the battle. "It's a long, complicated situation that my tiny brain couldn't _possibly_ comprehend, but I think it has something to do with the fact that half of the building is being powered by a boiler system that's older than my father. Um. Sorry."

Dalir knew the sarcasm wasn't directly at him so he shrugged off the apology and got out of bed, nabbing a t-shirt and a pair of shorts for himself without all the agonizing Erik was doing. "Don't worry, it totally sucks. I'll drive you in."

"No, you don't have to - "

"I want to," Dalir insisted. "Come on, be reasonable. Fifteen more minutes of air-conditioning in the car. Plus we can go through the drive-thru at Dunkin for iced coffee."

"You got in so late last night, you should sleep more - "

"I'm good," Dalir insisted, putting on the sandals he'd left beside the bed the night before. "It was the best sleep I've had in days. I'm refreshed! I might even put in some time on your Nordic track since it's too hot to run outside. I barely moved at my parents' and I ate way too much. Look, love handles."

He pinched the small amount of spare flesh at his side between his thumb and forefinger. Erik rolled his eyes pointedly. "Wow. You've really let yourself go." 

This time the sarcasm was entirely directed at him and not undeservedly. Dalir grinned briefly at him before holding up a finger to imply he needed a second. He disappeared into the bathroom and emerged a few minutes later once he'd taken care of business and brushed his teeth. "Come here."

Dalir liked - more than liked - kissing Erik, but he didn't like having to get on his toes to do it. Made him feel...okay, it was kind of sexist, he supposed, but it made him feel kind of girly. In his innermost thoughts, Dalir kind of thought it was unfair that Erik was so freaking tall while he was two inches under six feet on a good day. If the universe was a just place, Dalir figured their heights should have been switched. Not because he had basketball aspirations, but because it would be easier. Make more sense. And...well, Erik would probably balk if he knew Dalir thought this way about him, but it would feel like he could be more effectively protect him. From other people. Maybe from himself, too.

But fate was what it was and their parents' DNA was what it was. So Dalir, at a respectably average 5'10, craned his neck up and Erik, at a decidedly not average 6'5, bent down to meet him half way.  

"I missed you," Erik muttered against Dalir's mouth as Dalir made an affirmative noise in response. He pulled away, straightening up with a groan. "If you're going to take me, we've got to go. I'll be late otherwise."

Cursing Erik's schedule (the niggling sensation that they should really take a vacation together hadn't subsided after a good night of sleep), Dalir nodded and grabbed his keys, shoving his suitcase out of the way of the door.

"I'll do laundry later," he said. "Mine and yours."

He might have made the most emotional, eloquent, and effusive declaration of affection ever, given how Erik reacted. 

"I love you," Erik sighed. And kissed him again. And, as a result was about fifteen minutes later than he was supposed to be by the time they got around to leaving the apartment. 

"So," Dalir began, as they idled in Tuesday morning traffic. It was a question he'd wanted to ask for a week, but felt like it was a conversation better had in person than over the phone. "Is...how's rehearsing with Christine?"

Erik blew out a breath, like he'd been holding it the whole drive, expecting Dalir would ask eventually. "Fine. Okay. I mean...weirdly normal? I tried to apologize, but she didn't want to talk about it. She's kind of acting like nothing happened."

Maybe not optimal, but Dalir wasn't really surprised. He'd only met Christine once, but the way she acted about Erik...he kind of didn't think she'd be the type to hold a grudge. Though 'acting like nothing happened' didn't seem as though it was the healthiest thing.

"Did you talk to David about it?" he asked, meaning Erik's therapist.

Erik nodded in confirmation. "Yeah. He said to let her set the tone and respond in kind. So...I'm also trying to pretend nothing happened while simultaneously replaying everything that happened over and over again and feeling terrible. But, you know. Conceal. Don't feel. It's...fine."

Dalir strongly suspected it was not fine, but didn't want to push. Boyfriend. Not nurse.

"And everyone else?" he asked, knowing Erik was nervous about how the new cast members would feel about working with him, considering...well. The obvious.

"Meh," Erik shrugged vaguely. "The only person whose said anything is Neal's friend Marshall - he's play the lead. It's fine, he just asked some stupid questions. I'd be less annoyed with him if he hadn't missed the first few days of rehearsal. Literally no one else has mentioned it. I was catastrophizing. The usual."

Dalir nodded, biting back further commentary. Boyfriend. Not nurse. They were finally approaching the building, waiting at a stop light, when he saw someone in the front that made him do a double-take. "Whoa - check out _that_  guy!"

If Erik was self-conscious about his appearance, no doubt getting a load of the complete anatomical oddity roving the streets would make him feel better about himself. Erik might be missing important pieces of his face, might have a lot of scars from his skin grafts and surgeries, but at least he had a good-looking body apart from that. The guy he glimpsed out the window was about a million feet tall and tooth-pick skinny. He was wearing black shorts and what looked like a woman's white tunic top. The neck was scooped and showed his overly-defined clavicles. His lower legs were so thin it was unreal - and Dalir was happy that he abided by any gym rat's golden rule: Don't skip leg day.

Erik caught sight of him and groaned, slumping down in the passenger seat as though he was trying to hide. "I've seen that guy, I know that guy - his name is Zac, he's in the show."

"As _what_?" Dalir asked before he could stop himself. A glance in the rear-view treated him to a glimpse of a gaunt face with deep-set eyes and a hawkish nose. "The Grim Reaper?"

"Dolokhov," Erik said, with a half-shrug. 

"Bless you," Dalir replied a little cheekily. Erik favored him with one of his 'Oh-my-God-Dalir-read-a-book' expressions (even though he was wearing a mask and couldn't move his face much underneath it, Dalir now recognized _many_ Erik-specific expressions) and sighed.

"I think he wants to be friends?" he added with a questioning hitch in his voice as Dalir double-parked to let him out in front of the theatre. 

"And you don't want to be friends," Dalir correctly surmised. "Why, is he a douche?"

"No, he's not, he's just..." They'd overtaken Zac on the drive down the block and Erik was glancing over his shoulder, trying to gauge the distance before he completed that thought. "A _lot_. He's...really _up_ all the time. Peppy. _Extra_ , if you will."

Dalir would _not_ , thanks. He found people like that exhausting - although (he'd keep his thoughts to himself on this point), their former roommate and Erik's current best friend Darren Wong seemed to fit that description. Maybe Erik only had room for one peppy guy in his life. Dalir could hope, anyway. 

One more kiss on parting and Erik grabbed his bag and his iced coffee - just in time for Zac to see him exiting the SUV. 

"Hi!" he exclaimed, drawing the word out so he sounded like one of the fuzzy blobs from the Cricket Wireless commercials that aired all the time on Hulu. "I love your shirt! OHMYGOD IS THAT YOUR BOYFRIEND?!"

Without having his assumptions confirmed or denied - indeed, without receiving any reply, Zac stuck his head, shoulder, and one of his long, thin arms through the passenger side door toward Dalir. 

"Hi!" he exclaimed again. He had a really nice speaking voice, which made him sound enthusiastic and friendly, rather than annoying as someone with a more shrill tone might. The face did not improve upon closer analysis - his smile was kind of off-putting and his sunglasses blocked his eyes from view, so Dalir couldn't get much of a read on him. But Dalir summoned his inner cop and made his face pleasantly neutral as he shook Zac's hand. They were cold, which was odd considering how warm it was outside.  

"Hi," he replied. Then, because Erik hadn't said anything, added, "Yeah, I'm Erik's boyfriend. Dalir. Nice to meet you."

There was a lot of strength in those skinny fingers; Zac had a remarkably strong grip for a human string bean.

"So nice to meet you!" he gushed. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you that your boyfriend is ridiculously talented and nice and amazing and you are one _lucky_ bastard."

Had Dalir thought he'd dislike Zac as much as Erik seemed to? Because he didn't. On the contrary, he was finding Zac kind of...delightful. 

It was down to his opinion of Erik. His raw praise, so effusively and generously given. Dalir knew Erik was ridiculously talented and nice and amazing. Dalir knew he was a pretty lucky bastard. It was just that this was the first time anyone else had said so; most people seemed to be under the impression that Erik was the lucky one.

"Thanks," Dalir said, grinning back at Zac in return. "I am pretty damn lucky."

Zac and Erik disappeared into the theatre, Zac shouting loudly enough to be heard through the closed car doors, "HOLY SHIT YOUR BOYFRIEND IS HOT!" 

Dalir shot Erik a quick text before he pulled back into traffic, **I like him. You should be friends.**

He didn't get a reply until he got home. Erik sent him a red-faced grumpy emoji and a single word, **Bastard.**

Dalir smiled to himself and quickly typed back: **LUCKY bastard.**


End file.
